


Head, Hand, Heart

by ddagent



Series: Queen Brienne [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jaime Lannister holding a small human, Jousting, Kissing, Mutual Pining, No Cersei, Oral Sex, Platonic Cuddling, Queen!Brienne, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Weddings, Women Being Awesome, face touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 17:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20429621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: When Jaime slays King Aerys, there is no one to take his place. Ned, fearing a Lannister rise to power, suggests his father’s ward, Brienne of Tarth, take the throne. She reluctantly agrees, and finds an ally in Ser Jaime. His loyalty is given by asking just one question: why.As the Maid of Tarth becomes Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Kingslayer becomes Hand to the Queen. And, the longer they spend together, possibly more…





	1. The King is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> N.B. This story is set at the tail end, and post, Robert's Rebellion. Most of the background of Robert's Rebellion and the Sack of King's Landing I've found in the asoiaf wiki, and I sincerely apologise for any inaccuracies with canon events. All characters have their show appearances (other than the colour of Jaime's eyes), and Jaime is 19 (as he is in the show). Brienne has been aged up (she's now 18, although we have no show!canon for her age). Other characters will also be aged slightly. 
> 
> This chapter, and the subsequent two chapters, have descriptions of brutal deaths (Aerys; Elia and her children). It's not anything more than what you would see in the show. 
> 
> Finally, I wanted to thank everyone who has been so supportive of queen!brienne on tumblr; your comments and enthusiasm have been so inspiring. I only hope, after all that, you enjoy it! :)

In another life, the Maid of Tarth would be home, on her island, waiting for the ravens to bring news of Robert Baratheon's rebellion. In an even stranger one, perhaps, she would be waiting for news of her husband; yearning to fight on the battlefield herself. But in this life she was eighteen years old; sitting astride a steed next to Eddard Stark as they rode through the open gates of King's Landing.

Brienne halted her procession as she gazed in horror; the city falling before her very eyes. The air was thick with smoke and blood; brick crumbling and homes blazing. There were screams and cries and Brienne's stomach twisted; her hand reaching for her sword with the desire to rush and _help. _Above it all, above all this _madness, _were banners she had yet to see in any of their previous battles.

_The golden lion._ "Tywin Lannister finally made his choice." 

"That he did." Ned swallowed; eyes closing as if to block out the sights in front of him. It would do him no good. Those screams would ring in Brienne's ears for days. Ned finally opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her. "We need to head for the Red Keep."

Nodding, Brienne pressed her heels into the flanks of her horse and, together, they rode ahead of the rebel forces. If some questioned her ability to fight, they had long stopped saying so in her presence. She'd fought alongside Ned since the beginning; had bled and spilled blood in the Trident same as any other who wished to see the Mad King relinquish his throne. Robert may have had his vengeance when he slew Rhaegar, but Brienne had yet to see justice for the Starks. They were good people, who had treated a Stormlands girl like one of their own. No one deserved to die like they had. _No one. _

As they manoeuvred their way through the capital, a flurry of activity to her left caught Brienne's attention. A young woman, barely older than Brienne herself, was fighting off two soldiers donned in red and gold.

"Brienne—"

She didn’t respond to Ned, or the calls from some in their party to return and head for the Red Keep. Sword in hand, she swung from her horse and approached the men. The first barely recognised her presence before she spilled his blood. The next had his blade out, and they matched steel before Brienne slashed at his belly. He fell to the ground; hands pressed to the mortal wound. Brienne offered her hand to the young woman, helping her from the floor. Blood was matted in her hair; smoke and tears stained her face. Brienne called over two young soldiers holding Stark banners.

"You take care of her. You get her somewhere safe. And if I find out that _anyone _has laid a hand on her – _including_ _you _– I'll remove both of yours, do you understand me?"

"Yes, my Lady."

The woman glanced back at Brienne before she was hustled to safety. The rest of their army quickly dispersed: some would stay at the gates, awaiting Lord Robert's arrival. The others would follow Brienne's example and help the innocents who had suffered first under dragon rule, and were now swallowed whole by the lions of Lannisport. Brienne helped two children onto her horse, led by a Tarth boy she'd known from the harbour. She and Ned continued on to the Red Keep alone, and on foot.

"I don't know what we'll find when we get in there," Ned said, as the daunting towers drew closer. "Tywin Lannister might have already got inside. Either way, keep your wits about you."

Brienne nodded. She had no intention of dying today. Whether it be an army, a dragon, or even Tywin Lannister's son on the Kingsguard: Brienne would fight them all.

\--

The last of the Kingsguard in King's Landing sat atop the Iron Throne; the blood of the King slowly creeping across the floor. Jaime stared at the body every so often; _daring _it to move. Daring Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, to rise as a dragon and burn him like he'd done to so many others; like he'd intended to do to this city. When he wasn't staring at the crown atop a corpse, Jaime watched the door. _Who would be first, _he kept thinking. A servant, perhaps. Robert Baratheon striding in to claim what he thought of as his. Maybe even Jaime's father.

_No, no, it won't be him. He's too busy sacking the city. _

It was quiet in here. Just the slow tap of his fingers atop the throne as he waited. Every once in a while he could hear a shout or scream but it was muted. All of it was happening so very far away. Earlier, Jaime had seen smoke rise from the city and his heart had clenched; had he been too late? But no. No wildfire. Just looting and pillaging and defiling all in the name of their _new king. _Jaime had saved the population of King's Landing from a fiery death. He could not save the people from his father. That was for the Gods, and where were they now? The Warrior was in his arm as he'd struck the fatal blow. But where was the Maiden when her people needed her?

Suddenly the doors to the throne room opened, and in swept the Maiden herself.

Jaime's mouth fell open as he took her in. Tall, taller than him. Broad shoulders; Targaryen blonde hair damp with sweat and brushing her neck. There was blood on her face, and blood on her sword, and her blue eyes first caught sight of the pyromancer's body. They slowly crept across the room until she saw the body of their King, and him atop the throne. _You took too long, Maiden. I prayed and I know others prayed too. You didn't answer. I had to answer them myself. _

But before the Maiden could speak, before Jaime could, another figure entered the room. _Eddard Stark_. He looked at the bodies; the blood on Jaime's blade he had yet to wipe off and the stain on his white cloak that would never be clean. Stark approached him; the Maiden following. Only she wasn't one of the Seven; she was Rickard Stark's former ward. Jaime had caught a glimpse of her briefly at the tournament in Harrenhal. Tall, ugly thing compared to Stark's beloved daughter. That tournament felt like a lifetime ago. Two, even.

Stark waited at the foot of the steps leading to the throne, staring with an icy gaze until Jaime finally stood. He gave Jaime a single nod. "Your father and his army are within the city walls. The King is dead. Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you say, Lannister." 

It was not a question. An accusation; a judgement. Jaime did not draw his sword to defend himself, but that wasn't his only weapon. "You were going to kill him anyway; I was just saving you the time."

"I'm sure. You and your father's dedication to our cause has always been about _timing._"

Jaime was going to tell him. About the wildfire; about Aerys' plans to burn this city and every single man, woman, and child within it. But one look into those grey eyes – as icy and cold as Stark's ancestral home – held his tongue. _He won't believe me, _Jaime realised. _No one will ever believe me. _

The eyes of his companion held no understanding, either. Cold appraisal; even _disgust _as the hem of his white cloak dragged through the puddle of blood on the floor. She glanced down; noticed the soles of her boots were the same. The not-so-maiden-fair stepped back.

"Lady Brienne." Her head snapped up as Stark spoke. "I need to speak to the others; get the word out that Aerys is dead. I need you to stay here. Watch the body. Watch _him._"

Without another word to Jaime, the honourable Eddard Stark swept from the room. The tall, beast of a woman placed a hand upon the hilt of her sword and met his eye in a challenging stare. He could kill her without a second thought; she carried a blade, but that didn't mean she was any _good. _But Jaime kept his sword sheathed, and took a spot upon the steps and sat watch. No one else would die today. Not by his hand, and not be Aerys Targaryen's, either. Their new king…who could say?

\-- 

Justice had been done, but not by her hand.

Brienne looked at the cold corpse of their former king and felt little pity for his passing. He was cruel, and unhinged, and deserved to be slain for his crimes. _But not this way. _Brienne shifted her gaze to his executioner, Ser Jaime Lannister. He'd stabbed his King in the back and drew his blade across his throat. He'd betrayed his oaths as a knight and as a Kingsguard, all in his father's favour. That thought, as much as anything she'd seen that day, unsettled her.

She knew little of Ser Jaime. He fought well; knighted at sixteen. An honour most boys – and her – would only ever dream of. How could he do this? "Why?"

It was the first someone had spoken since Ned's departure, and Ser Jaime looked at the body first as if it had cried the word. He then looked at her; his stare cold and unyielding. "_Why_? Why, what?"

"You swore an oath to protect the King. He would have fallen anyway; if not by Lord Eddard's hand than by Lord Robert's. Why yours? You're a knight, Ser Jaime."

His lips quirked in a macabre smile. "I am. And so are half the men out there sacking the city. _But you're not._"

Ser Jaime gathered himself from the steps and made his approach. His eyes, emerald green and just as sharp, took her in from her men's boots to the blood in her hair. "You want to be, though. But you won't. You think your friend Baratheon will offer you a knighthood once he takes the throne? That Stark will take you into his service? _No. _You'll be shipped off to whatever gods-forsaken place births beasts such as yourself and you'll spend the rest of your days spreading your legs and birthing babes and you will be _lucky._" He spat. "Lucky that you will never know the pain of making the choice between keeping your oath and betraying it."

It was then, so close that she could feel the spittle from his words, that Brienne noticed how _ill _Ser Jaime looked. His face was pallid; the golden hair she remembered from the tourney at Harrenhal limp and without shine. There were circles under his eyes and sweat beading upon his brow. He did not look like a man with no regrets; like a man who had slain a king in his father's name. He did not look like the golden lions outside with blood under their nails and no conscience to haunt them.

If he were a lion, he would be a lame one. "Why, Ser Jaime?"

His voice was smaller, now. "You heard Lord Stark."

"I'm not interested in what Lord Stark _thinks_ happened here. I wish to know the truth. You're the only one who can give it."

Jaime threw his arms open. "Why? Why do you_ want_ to know?"

At that moment, he did not look a knight; one of the most decorated warriors in all the land. He looked all a boy of nineteen, with the weight of all Seven Kingdoms upon his shoulders. Brienne removed the hand from her sword and stepped forward to address him. "I will never be a knight, Ser Jaime. I know this; I'm not a fool. But I live, and I fight, by their code. And I think you do, too."

When Jaime sat, almost collapsing, against the stone steps in front of the throne, Brienne followed. She watched as his gaze turned upon the body, still nameless to her, by the far doors. Then to the King. 

"All of _this _has been coming for a long time. But no one saw, or no one cared. Aerys was unbalanced long before I joined the Kingsguard. Every day after was just a _little _worse." Ser Jaime's shoulders were hunched; his words hoarse as if he hadn't spoken this long in some time. "He was paranoid, and vicious. But we were tasked to protect him, not _stop _him. Not when he burned Lords, or executed Hands, or raped his wife. We stood, and we watched him grow madder with each passing day. Do you know what wildfire is, my Lady?"

Brienne gave a single nod. "I do."

"There are caches of them in the city as we speak. Under the Sept of Baelor; under houses and brothels and taverns. Under our very feet." Ser Jaime tapped his boot to the stone steps as he said it. "That man—" Jaime pointed to the second body. "—put them there, on the King's orders."

Her growing unease twisted into dread. Ser Jaime continued with his story. "You were still marching on the capital when my father arrived. Come to protect the city, he said. You saw what he _did_." Brienne nodded. "I told the King as much. Varys, his Master of Whispers, told him, too. But he wouldn't listen. He only listened to Grand Maester Pycelle, who said, 'The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown'. Like a Lannister has _friends_." 

Brienne didn't have to hear Jaime's explanation for what came next. The gates were open when they'd arrived; the Lannister army plundering the city. Tywin had betrayed the crown. The King wouldn't have stood for that.

"I asked him to surrender, you know. To my father, to Stark, to _you, _even. But he didn't. He asked me to bring him my father's head. Then he turned to his pyromancer and said _burn them all." _Ser Jaime swallowed, struggling to force the words past his lips. "_Burn them in their homes, burn them in their beds._"

His head was bowed; eyes screwed shut as if he could still see it happening right in front of him. When he opened them, his gaze was fixed upon his bloodied sword. _"_I killed the pyromancer first. Then the King, when he tried to run. _Burn them all, _he kept saying. _Burn them all. _That's it. You wanted the truth, my Lady. There is it. Do with it what you will."

Brienne said nothing. Did nothing. She was frozen by Ser Jaime's words, by her own poor assumptions. By breaking his solemn vow, Ser Jaime had saved them all. Saved the soldiers in his father's army; saved the low-born living within the city walls. Saved Ned and the rest of the rebels. He'd saved her, too. She had only heard what Aerys had done to Lord Rickard and his son; could only imagine – thanks to Ser Jaime – the fate that would have met them all. She knew what to say, now. Knew what to do. Brienne threw her arms around Ser Jaime's neck and embraced him.

"_Thank you,_" she whispered against the shell of his ear; feeling him stiffen under her touch. "You did the right thing, Ser Jaime. The knightly thing. _Thank you._"

She meant to pull away; to apologise for her forthright behaviour. But Ser Jaime held her steadfast in his arms; one wrapped around the blades of her shoulders and the other around her back. Brienne clung to the cloth of his white cloak. If she could hear the sound of gentle sobbing against her shoulder, she said nothing. Just pressed a hand to Ser Jaime's head and felt her own eyes well with tears. They were alive, and they were safe, and when Robert arrived she would speak on Ser Jaime's behalf to ensure he was not executed for saving the population of King's Landing.

Maybe then they could finally leave this wretched place and go _home_.


	2. Long Live the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned has a proposition for Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU, EVERYONE, FOR YOUR AMAZING COMMENTS! I am utterly thrilled by the reaction to chapter 1, and I hope you enjoy chapter 2 just as much!
> 
> (Side note, this chapter was an utter bastard to edit. The scene transitions had to be re-set; I had to remove about two pages of interaction and write new stuff...it's been a day. Still, I hope it was worth it.)

In another life, with golden hair and a gleaming smile, Jaime would have laughed if a woman resembling Brienne had tried to touch him. But no one had, not with care, since he had donned the White. His dearest sister and beloved brother were kept away from court; there was no love or bonds of brotherhood to be formed under Aerys' maddening rule. Yet Brienne had embraced him. He'd told her the truth; half-expecting her to curse him or call him a liar. Instead, she'd reached for him; _thanked him. _When she'd moved to pull away, Jaime had clung to her. It was as if a dam had broken inside him, and everything that he'd kept closed off had rushed to the surface.

He'd wept. She'd wept, and stroked his hair, and whispered _thank you _with her nails biting into the blades of his shoulders. For a while, Jaime thought he must have died; for nothing on this earthly plain could feel as good as being held by Brienne.

As the rays of sun became moonlight, their tears eased. Jaime relaxed his hold upon Brienne. She brushed away her tears with the heel of her hand, before reaching for her waterskin. Two quick mouthfuls, before she offered it to him. "You should drink something."

"Thank you." He gulped the water; could not remember the last time he'd drank. It dribbled over his chin. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

She offered her sleeve, but he wiped it away with his own. For a young woman with blood on her face, she was surprisingly gentle. And kind. _Far_ too kind for this world, for this _place_. "Thank you, Lady Brienne, for believing me."

A smile. As kind as her touch. "You're welcome, Ser Jaime."

As they stared at each other, Jaime was momentarily transfixed by her eyes; sapphire blue like the waters he'd heard spoken of near Tarth. When he'd first caught sight of her, Jaime had thought her the Maiden. Then, to his discredit, a _beast. _But Brienne was nothing like the wolves she ran with. Jaime had slain the true beast, and the Maiden had offered him comfort in gratitude. But the Maiden was only one of the Gods. Jaime feared the Stranger would arrive soon, waving a yellow banner with a black stag.

"What will happen now?" he asked. "To me, I mean."

It seemed foolhardy to put his own execution into words, but he wanted to be prepared. If no one else believed him, if only this strange young woman with eyes he could drown in believed him, he would go to the noose or sword satisfied. But Jaime wanted to be prepared. He wanted to make peace with the Gods he'd railed against; cursed to. He wanted some peace before the end. 

"I won't let Robert hurt you." Jaime's mouth fell open; surprised by the vehemence of her words. "I promise you; he won't lay a hand on you."

Somehow, Jaime believed her.

\--

"Robert Baratheon is dead."

Beside her, Ser Jaime laughed. The sound rang in the empty room, and not even Brienne's disapproving look could halt the sound spilling from his lips. "Of _course _he is. The King is dead. His successor is dead. Aerys' children and grandchildren probably are, too. At this rate, they should just start fitting his replacement for a funeral pyre."

Brienne bristled at Jaime's flippancy; quickly rising to join Ned at the bottom of the steps. She placed a comforting hand upon his arm. "I'm so sorry, Ned. What happened?"

"His wound from the Trident…he caught a fever, and it took him earlier today. The messenger just arrived." Ned's eyes refused to focus on her. They looked past her; as if watching the spectre of Robert Baratheon sit on a throne he would never hold. "We're left without a king, Brienne."

For whatever reason – _shock, _most likely – Ser Jaime kept laughing. That broke Ned out of his reverie, and he turned on the young man with a single hand upon his broadsword. "You think this is amusing, do you? We're in this mess because of _you_."

Before Ser Jaime could draw his own blade, Brienne stepped between them. She placed a hand upon Ned's chest; softly shaking her head. Too much blood had been spilled today; she wouldn't see another drop. "This isn't Ser Jaime's fault, Ned. We rushed into a war, like so many do, without thinking of the world we wanted to build after it. Ser Jaime is a good man, and has rid the world of a lesser one." Ned's forehead creased; not expecting her defence of Ser Jaime. "We will find another path. We'll talk to Jon Arryn—"

"I already have. We have no king. But we could have a queen." She frowned; was he talking about Queen Rhaella? "_You_." 

"Me?"

Brienne assumed Ned must be talking to Ser Jaime, or even the corpse of Aerys Targaryen. There was no fathomable way he was talking to _her. _She was Lady Brienne of Tarth; Brienne the _Beauty_. Too tall, too ugly, too undignified. Her only grace was on the battlefield. She stood now soaked in sweat, grime, and blood, and Ned thought she could be Queen? No one in the Seven Kingdoms would kneel to her. Not as she was, and certainly not without someone else occupying the role of _King. _Brienne's laughter ricocheted off the stone walls. She was the only one.

"You jest," she said, when she noticed both Ned and Ser Jaime watching her curiously. "Ned, _no._"

"Why not? Robert wanted to be King, and he had a good claim because Targaryen blood ran through his veins. There's some in yours, isn't there?"

Brienne shrugged. "Many Houses in the Stormlands have Targaryen ancestry. That doesn't mean the people will accept them as their Queen!"

Ned nodded; accepting, but not backing down. "Maybe not, but they've seen _you_ fight. Our men have seen you fight. I remember when we first started; there was a wager going round on whether you'd run away screaming or piss yourself on the field." Brienne froze. That wasn't the only wager on during their campaign. "They'd follow you into all seven hells, now. They know who you are, what you're capable of, and they'd die for you as soon as they would for Robert or me."

"The noble houses—"

"—would support you. The Targaryens are gone. That leaves eight. You'll have Stark banners; Tully and Arryn, too. The others can be persuaded."

He was talking as if this was a surety; as if they would support her claim. "Ned—"

Two firm hands fell upon her shoulders. She looked down at him, at steel grey eyes _begging _for her to agree; to accept the position of _Queen. _Brienne tried to see the logic in his proposal. With Robert dead and Ned unwilling, that left Arryn and he was just as unlikely as Ned to want the throne. _But I don't want it either. _

"Brienne, I need you to do this for me. I need you to take that throne. If you don't, then I will bet all the gold you can carry that Tywin Lannister will take it instead. So, I need it to be _you_. The country _needs _it to be you. It's in your blood, Brienne. The Tarths were once Kings and Queens. You were meant to sit at Evenfall Hall and rule an island, and you'll do so. Just a bigger island."

"He's right." Brienne and Ned both turned to Ser Jaime as he gathered himself up from the stone steps. "If there's no one waiting to take that throne then, when he's finished sacking the city, my father _will _take it for himself. He doesn't care about the people. He cares about money, and power, and the _great _Lannister dynasty. He won't be the King this country needs."

Brienne snorted. "And I am to be a better candidate?"

Ser Jaime's eyes sidled to Ned; both of them seemingly finding common ground on this matter. "Better than my father, my Lady."

Brienne turned from both men and looked towards the Iron Throne. She'd heard stories of it; had never glimpsed it before this day. And yet, it seemed as if she were destined to rule upon it. _But_ _no one will accept me. _It had taken months for her to earn the respect of the men in the company, and even then it was only Ned's intervention that had put an end to the jeers, taunts, pranks. A small part of Brienne urged her to take the throne simply to stop Lord Tywin from doing so. The blood, tears, smoke and screams outside were _his _doing. Yet it was not enough. _She _was not enough.

"I'm sorry, Ned. You'll have to find someone else."

Her old friend gave a firm nod, and then left to return to Jon Arryn. There would be _someone. _There would have to be _someone. _She couldn't do it. She couldn't be _Queen Brienne._ All she'd ever wanted to be was a knight. Then she'd wanted justice for the Starks. Now, _now _she just wanted to go home. Back to Tarth; back to her father. Back to a life of failed engagements and men questioning her every move. She found herself repeating Ser Jaime's question. "What will happen now?"

"I'm not sure, my Lady. I'm not sure."

\-- 

Jaime could not predict what would occur next on this fateful day. The world he knew was ever-shifting; he'd woken this morning as the last Kingsguard in the Red Keep, and would wake tomorrow with someone else on the throne. All that was consistent in this new world was _her. _The brief moments they touched were like the eye of the storm; calm, contained. She'd embraced him after he'd spilled his truth, and now her head rested upon his shoulder as she struggled with the consequences of her decision not to accept the throne. He doubted Brienne even knew she was doing it. They'd just collapsed together.

"You should drink something," he said, in the empty quiet of the room.

With a heavy hand, she took the wineskin from her hip and tipped the last few drops onto the ground. "All gone." She wet her dry lips and looked at him, picking her head up from his shoulder. "I did the right thing, didn't I, Ser Jaime?"

"I suppose we'll see when Lord Stark returns."

Just then, the doors to the throne room swung open. Brienne stumbled to her feet like a dog greeting its master; eager to find an answer to her question. But it wasn't Stark. Two men wearing rebel colours entered; one carrying a bundle of sheets. They moved the pyromancer first; arms tense as they swung his body out of view. They covered him with one of the sheets, and then made their approach to the throne. The men eyed him warily; one openly carrying his blade. The other gave a simple nod to Brienne.

"Milady. Lord Stark has asked us to move the bodies. He also said to tell you that they have yet to find another, and is _begging _you to reconsider."

"Thank you, Ser Jon."

With another nod, one man grabbed Aerys' shoulders and the other his feet, and moved him out of sight. His crown slipped off in the process, landing in the pool of dried blood at the foot of the throne. Brienne reached for it; her thumb tracing the golden filigree as she held the crown of Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, in her hands.

"What if I become him, Ser Jaime?" Brienne said softly, Aerys' crown biting into her palms. "What if I say _yes, _and I become like _him? _You'd do the right thing again, wouldn't you?"

Jaime struggled for words; unsure how to respond to Brienne's _plea _that he slay her if she became cruel, and vicious, and unhinged. If she became _him. _An unimaginable prospect for someone so kind, so honourable. "I swear to you, my Lady, I would never need to raise my sword to you."

"What if I'm not enough?"

No one could answer that; not yet. "Why don't you try it out and see? Just sit on the throne; see how it feels."

Brienne nodded, before she ascended the stone steps towards the Iron Throne. She cut a formidable figure: the blood on her face; her dented blue armour. Jaime could easily picture the Tarth Kings and Queens of old; masters of storm and sea. As Brienne approached the throne, she hesitated. Teeth pulled at the flesh of her bottom lip. Then she took her place where Kings and Hands and Jaime himself had sat. As tall as most men if not taller; broad as most men if not broader. She did not look small or weak sitting amongst the molten blades.

She looked like a Queen.

"The throne becomes you," Jaime said, watching as she settled in place. "How do you feel?"

She sucked in a breath. "Powerful."

As a woman, he imagined she'd experienced little of that. "What can you see yourself doing?"

Jaime stiffened; frozen in wait for her answer. His father would use this throne to advance the interests of the Lannisters and his allies; the rest of the world be damned. Robert Baratheon would have sat upon that throne with a goblet of wine in one hand and a whore's breast in the other. Most he knew would use the Iron Throne, and all its benefits, for their own gain. He wanted, nay _needed, _Brienne to be different. She did not disappoint.

"I see the people coming with their problems. I'm helping them. Like my father does on Tarth. They bring apples and straw figures and he gives advice and weighs in on disagreements. Like the vows taken as a knight: to be just, to defend the innocent."

Jaime smiled; genuinely smiled for the first time in _so _long. "So be brave, Brienne, and take the throne."

"Yes." One word, three letters. As life-changing as _why. _Brienne turned to him, nodding resolutely. "Yes."

And there she sat. Brienne of Tarth, the first of her name. Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._ His Queen. _Jaime drew his sword; the rebel soldiers hearing the sound of steel and drawing theirs as if planning to attack. But Jaime simply placed his blade in front of Brienne and dropped to one knee.

"Wh–what are you doing?" 

_"_I thought it was obvious. I'm pledging fealty to my new Queen."

The two bannermen quickly followed suit; both dropping to the floor as Brienne sat upon the Iron Throne. Just then, the great doors opened once more. Lord Stark was first; bending the knee as soon as he clasped eyes upon Brienne. No one could miss his smile, head bowed as it was. The second through the door was a face Jaime knew all too well. Tywin Lannister strode through as if he himself had claimed the throne. But a Stormlands girl had got there first. He looked at Ned Stark, at the bannermen, and then at his own _son _bending the knee.

_You took too long, _Jaime thought as he watched his father bend as low as he could stomach. _You only entered the fray when it suited you. You'll have no power over her, I'll see to that. She is my Queen, and I am her Guard. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, "The End of the Beginning", will be posted later this week.


	3. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne begins her new role; Cersei's presence is felt in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support of chapter II! I'm so thrilled you enjoyed it. A quick shout out to remuslovestonks for letting me know her thoughts on this chapter, especially the re-write of the final scene. 
> 
> N.B. I've added a new tag. This chapter does mention the previous relationship between Jaime and his sister, but does not go into any explicit detail. 
> 
> Happy reading! :)

"Your Grace?" Two raps at the door. Brienne stirred, only to bury her head further underneath the pillows. "Your Grace?"

"They're talking to you, you know."

The voice, familiar yet new, cut through the last dregs of sleep. Brienne bolted upwards on the feather mattress, one hand reaching for a sword that was no longer there. The scabbard had been draped across a chair, along with her boots and armour. Brienne scanned the rest of the room: clothes that weren't hers; childhood mementos from the Westerlands rather than Tarth. In a chair by the door sat Ser Jaime Lannister; his white cloak thrown across him. Uncomfortable, surely. But his bed was rather occupied.

Two louder knocks echoed through the sparse chambers in the White Sword Tower. "Your Grace? Queen Brienne?" 

_Queen. She was Queen, now. _Or would be in the following days when the remaining loyalist banners were tipped and the city stopped burning. Running a hand through her hair, Brienne addressed one of the two men Ned had insisted be posted to her door. "Yes, Ser Jon?"

"One of the squires is here with a water basin and some cloths, Your Grace. Another is bringing up some food."

Brienne nodded. "Alright. I'm coming."

Perhaps it was traditional for the guards to open the door; for the squire or handmaiden to lay the basin of cool water and washcloths on an elegantly carved table amongst wines and cheeses. But Brienne was tired, and filthy, and was still _her _until they placed a crown atop her head. So she wrenched open the door; the broad expanse of her torso hiding Ser Jaime from the view of her guards. Offering a smile to the young squire, she took the basin and kicked the door closed. 

Depositing it on a nearby table, Brienne soaked one of the cloths and began scrubbing at the dried dirt and blood on her face. From the other side of the room, Ser Jaime stirred. "Not so hard. You'll scrub the skin off." 

"I thought I told you to get some sleep."

"You did." After Tywin Lannister had presented his macabre show of fealty, Brienne and the remaining rebel leaders began planning their next move. As night had turned into day and day into night, sleep had overwhelmed both Brienne and Ser Jaime. He'd offered his chambers – his bed – as a safe spot for her to slumber. He'd planned to take the room of one of his fallen brothers. Somehow he'd found his way back to her side. "You're my Queen; it is my job to protect you."

Brienne splashed some water through her hair. She'd need a proper bath if she was ever to feel human again. She tossed one of the cloths to Ser Jaime. "Are you so skilled with a sword, Ser, that you can defend me in your sleep?"

"_Of course. _From villains, nightmares, and evil Septas; if your nocturnal mutterings are any guide." Jaime dowsed the cloth before straightening, head bowed. "Forgive me, Your Grace; that was unworthy."

"Nothing about you is unworthy, Ser Jaime." They shared a look over the basin; his eyes sad and soft as if to say _you know that's untrue. _"How are you feeling?"

"Funny, I was going to ask the same of you." He slunk back to his chair; his hands reaching for the white cloak. Time had turned the bloodied hem brown. "It feels as if I've been holding something for so long and someone has finally taken it from me. My arms ache; everything aches. But there's a certain _freedom _to it. And yourself?"

"It feels like a dream. I'm waiting for Robert to burst through the door and announce the throne is his. Or to wake up on Tarth to the smell of the sea and the sound of the gulls." Brienne was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to curl herself up on Ser Jaime's bed and sleep until she woke in her real bed, in her real life. But this was her reality now. She was going to be _Queen. _

At least she wouldn't walk this path alone. Ser Jaime seemed dedicated to walking it with her.

Just then, her stomach grumbled. Brienne couldn't recall the last time she'd ate; perhaps the day before, or even the day before that. Thankfully, there were two raps on the door. This time, Brienne opened it immediately when Ser Jon asked for _Your Grace. _The squire, an eager boy who realised he was in the presence of the future Queen, thrust a tray of warm bread, cheese, and fruit into her arms. There was also a pitcher of water. She thanked him, and Ser Jon, and took it back into the room.

Brienne reached for the water first; her lips cracked and throat dry. But Ser Jaime touched her hand, lifting her fingers gently from the porcelain. "Allow me, Your Grace. I wouldn't put it past any remaining loyalists to slip poison into the new Queen's food or drink."

She relented, and allowed Ser Jaime to drink first. He took a sliver of cheese and a few crumbs of bread. Then a grape, and another, and another. Brienne chuckled when he popped a wedge of apple between his lips. "If you're hungry, Ser Jaime, join me. You don't have to eat scraps on the pretence of protecting me from harm." She dragged the chair he'd slept in over to the table. "Sit. _Eat._"

Ser Jaime waited a moment, as if expecting the offer to be rescinded. But then his arse was barely in the chair before he was reaching for a loaf of warm bread. Probably for the last time, Brienne did not care how she appeared whilst she ate. Sticky hands reached for knives and goblets. Crumbs were sprayed as they devoured the food; as if it would be snatched from their hands at any given moment. They had slept and they had eaten and once the last grape was finished they would have to face the world once more. 

But it would be alright. Ser Jaime had charged her to brave, and so she would.

\--

Barely two days before, Jaime had been charged with bringing his father's head to the King. Now that King was dead, and he stood in the war room of the remaining rebel forces as they planned the final days of the rebellion. Stark was at Storm's End, accepting the Tyrell surrender. Arryn was in the rookery, sending ravens to all the great noble houses asking for their support. He'd wanted Brienne crowned two days before; Aerys blood still on the floor and the bodies of Elia and her children wrapped in shrouds and presented like a cat bringing in a dead bird.

_I'll be crowned when the city stops burning and the war is over, _Brienne had said. _And not a moment before. _

As she and Ser Brynden moved hastily made markers with the Tarth sigil over a map of Westeros, Jaime took a moment to admire Brienne. She'd been kind, and gentle, in the minutes and hours following his slaying of the King. She'd been warm, and uncertain, in his bed as she moved from rebel soldier to warrior queen. Brienne was comfortable, and assured, discussing military positions and strategies. One day, Jaime would like to see her with a sword in her hand. He'd know all of Brienne, then.

"As for Tywin Lannister—" Jaime shifted his attention from the Queen to the meeting at hand. A few men in the room shuffled, pointedly looking at the Lannister heir. "—I recognise we need his support in the days and weeks to come. But I can't let what happened to those children go unpunished."

Before more could be said, Brienne was interrupted by a persistent rapping at the door. She met his eye across the room, and Jaime swept to open it. He was faced with Ser Jon, one of the men Lord Stark had assigned to protect Brienne. A man who looked at him with blatant disgust and disregard. But he wasn't in the room; Jaime was. "Yes?"

He looked around Jaime to speak to Brienne. "Lord Tywin Lannister for you, Your Grace."

The line of Brienne's shoulders straightened; her chin lifting. "Send him in, Ser Jon."

Any chatter fell away as Jaime's father strode inside. Tywin's gaze swept over the room: lingering upon Jaime in his Kingsguard uniform; upon their new Queen, standing taller than every man in the room other than the Blackfish. He bowed his head out of respect; although Jaime was sure he had little of it. What could he do with Brienne? How much power could he wield over her? Unless he dressed Cersei up as a man, there would be no Lannister on the throne beside her.

"Your Grace, excuse the interruption of your…_war council._" The implication was clear. He'd proven himself, yet he had no seat at the table. Jaime resisted the urge to smile. _This must be killing him. _"Could I have a moment with my son?"

Before Brienne could answer, Jaime spoke first. "Unless Ser Barristan has been pardoned and returned to the capital without my knowledge, I am the sole Queensguard in King's Landing. My place is here."

"It's alright, Ser Jaime," Brienne said, offering him a warm smile. "I'm sure I'll be able to keep myself out of trouble for a few minutes whilst you talk with your father."

Reluctantly, Jaime followed his Queen's command. After glancing over his shoulder to confirm Brienne would be alright, he followed his father along a winding corridor and into an empty room. A Lannister bannerman was waiting inside with a tray and a decanter of wine. Tywin poured a goblet for himself, then Jaime. He refused his. A huff of hot air puffed from his father's nostrils.

"I don't know whether to strike you or hug you," Tywin said, taking the sole seat in the room. Jaime had not expected a hug, but he had certainly expected more from his father's first words to him in two years than that. "Killing the King was folly. It helped smooth the transition of power, but it would have been better for us if Stark or Baratheon had swung the killing blow. You have endeared yourself to our new Queen; I'll give you credit for that."

_Because so far she's the only damn one who's asked me why I killed him, and not just _assumed. "She trusts me."

"Strange, considering you murdered her predecessor."

Jaime resisted the urge to bite back, knowing he would not win in a battle of wills or words with his father. All he had to guard himself with was his golden armour and white cloak. "Was that everything, Father? If so, I'm required elsewhere."

"_No, _that's not all, and _no, _you're not." Tywin slammed his goblet down upon the table; the squire flinching in the corner. "Aerys is dead; the vows you made to him are _null _and _void_. So you will ask the former Lady Brienne to be released from your duties as a Kingsguard. But don't worry, you won't go far. I plan to petition Lord Selwyn for her hand."

Jaime laughed. "You intend to marry her?"

"_No. _I intend for _you _to marry her." Tywin's chair scraped across the stone floor as he stood, reaching out to clasp Jaime's face with his right hand. "You are my son and heir and that _girl _looks at you like you've hung the sun and stars. If all goes well, you'll be married by the turning of the moon."

"She doesn't–Brienne doesn't look at me that way." Her warmth came from the openness, the trust they shared. Nothing more. _We'll be friends, _Jaime thought, _if we aren't already. _"You assume our new Queen is like the simpering maidens that followed me around before. She's not, Father. Believe me when I say, she will never be my bride."

"Give me one reason why not."

Jaime thought of his vows as a Kingsguard: to take no wife, to sire no children. He could offer that as a retort but his father would dismiss it as easily as Jaime could a passing blow. He'd already broken his most sacred vow: the blood of Aerys Targaryen was not a stain easily removed from his white cloak, or his honour. Then there was his dear sister. He had agreed to join the Kingsguard so they could be together in the capital. Now that Aerys was dead and Brienne was on the throne, Cersei could return to court. His mouth betrayed a smile at the thought of seeing her again. Familiar eyes steeped in worry; delicate hands curling over his shoulders as she embraced him, having feared she would never again cast her eyes upon him. 

No, _no, _he wouldn't marry Brienne. Keep her counsel; give his life for hers, _yes. _But that was all that he could ever give her. "I made vows, Father. To our new Queen. Unless she finds me wanting, I will remain in her Queensguard until I die." 

"_Fine_." That his father was not pursuing this argument told Jaime that this matter was _far _from resolved. He waited to be dismissed, but instead, Tywin reached into his coat and retrieved two letters sealed with red wax and the Lannister sigil. "One from your brother; one from your sister. I wrote to them as soon as I knew you were alive."

It was the first words he'd had from home in two years. Jaime clutched them in his grasp. "Thank you, Father."

Tywin left Jaime behind to read the treasured words from his siblings. He tore open the first, saw Tyrion's familiar scrawl, and set it aside for the next. It was shorter than his brother's letter. A handful of sentences. Yet Jaime read them, and read them again; as if to discern some hidden meaning. But there was none. There was _nothing_.

\--

_Something's happened. _Brienne could see it in Ser Jaime's face when he returned to the war room. His eyes were dark; his shoulders slumped. Parchment was clutched in his fist before he tucked it out of sight. Brienne wanted to do more than stare: she wanted to reach out, hold him, help him. But they weren't alone in the throne room, now. There were eyes everywhere; those she counted amongst her allies looked at Ser Jaime with distrust, disgust. _No, _she would wait and hope she had not waited too long.

"I think that's all we can do for today, gentleman," Brienne said, bringing the meeting to a halt as the light outside began to fade. "We'll wait to hear from Lord Stark and Lord Tyrell. Ser Brynden, I trust you'll bring that matter to Lord Lannister?"

Not even the mention of his father roused Ser Jaime. No one else in the room had noticed. "I will, Your Grace, although I fear he won't like it very much."

"He can grumble all he likes; I want the Mountain's _head_. If he won't do it, I'll do it myself."

With that, the room quickly emptied; lords and soldiers each with their specific task. But for Brienne, her day was done. Ser Jaime lingered behind her as she walked the unfamiliar corridors of the Red Keep. He was so close, yet it was as if he wasn’t there at all. _Perhaps he just needs some rest. _Sitting on that chair, watching her all night, could not have given him the peace he required. Ser Jon and some of the others could easily watch her, if it was _imperative _that she be watched at all. She would take alternative accommodation in the coming days, but for now, she felt at home in the tower of the Kingsguard. At the very least, she could allow Ser Jaime his bed.

"Would you show me to the Lord Commander's chambers, Ser Jaime?" Brienne said as they reached the White Sword Tower. "I mean to sleep there tonight."

Ser Jaime swallowed; a muscle in his cheek clenched. "Was my bed not suitable enough?"

"Your bed was perfectly fine, Ser. I mean to give it back to you." She crossed her arms, leaning in conspiratorially. "I think we could both do with some proper rest."

"_No._"

"I'm sorry?"

"No, _no, _you'll stay in my rooms. I'll sleep in the chair; I'll sleep on the floor. I don't _care, _Brienne." Ser Jaime stabbed a finger at the door leading to his own chambers. "Those rooms are the only place I _know_ you will be safe!" As quickly as the outburst had taken him, he regained his composure. "_Please_, Your Grace, let me keep you safe."

She dare not argue; not when she saw the look in Ser Jaime's eyes. Wild; pleading. "Alright. But I need a bath."

Ser Jaime gave her a half-smile; a huff of laughter falling from his lips. "Of course. I'll have one brought to you, Your Grace."

True to his word, he stood guard outside whilst Brienne bathed in the copper tub. She couldn't recall the last time she had enjoyed a bath; the months of campaign un-allowing for such frivolity. Brienne scrubbed with a bar of lye soap until her skin was red, and then soaked in the steaming water until it cooled. The two handmaidens Ser Jaime had summoned to bring her a bath had also brought her a towel, and Brienne dried herself as she knocked three times to signal she was done and the bath was to be removed.

Ser Jaime remained on the other side.

Finally clean, Brienne looked for something to wear. She sniffed the tunic she'd worn all day and gagged at the smell. She'd have to ask for more clothes, or ask her father to bring her some when he visited King's Landing for her coronation. _Her coronation. _What did Queens wear to bed? Brienne did not know. But she knew what knights did. Retreating to the door, Brienne knocked three more times.

"Ser Jaime, I have a strange request." 

She pictured him smirking; imagination racing as he wondered what she was about to say. "Do tell, Your Grace."

"Could I sleep in one of your shirts? I don't have anything that I haven't fought or slept in for the last year_._"

"Of course. There's a drawer near the chair."

"Thank you, Ser Jaime."

She padded over to said drawer and opened it; plucking out a white shirt and pulling it over her head. It was lucky she and Ser Jaime were of the same height, although her shoulders were a little broader. Brienne debated asking Ser Jaime to borrow the smallclothes neatly folded in the next drawer; she had little desire to sleep in Ser Jaime's bed in Ser Jaime's shirt and nothing more. But, as she moved towards the door, her arm swiped something off the dresser. A slip of parchment very similar to the one he'd clutched earlier. She picked it up.

Brienne had no desire to break Ser Jaime's confidence, but some of the words in the flowing script held her gaze. A rush of nausea washed over her. She was tempted to re-fold the parchment and pretend she had never read such explicit words between brother and sister. But something in this letter had troubled Ser Jaime so. She had not been able to reach for him in the war room. She could now.

She knocked three times on the door. "Forgive me, Ser Jaime, but I knocked over one of the messages you were sent. From your sister." 

The door did not open. Instead, she heard a thump as if Ser Jaime's head had leant back against the wood. "I see. Tell me, Your Grace, do you still believe me to be a good man?"

"I do."

His laughter crawled across her skin; a shiver rippling through her. "You're a terrible liar. I'm a man who slew his king. A man who _fucked _his own sister. You've read Cersei's words. You know how much she longs for me and my cock back at Casterly Rock."

"And that's all she longs for," Brienne blurted, unable to hold her tongue. Not when Ser Jaime seemed determined to form her opinion of him. Not when in one action she knew the core of him, and in one letter she knew the core of his sister. "Not once, in all those lines, does she ask how you are."

A chasm of silence engulfed them both. For a moment, Brienne wondered whether Ser Jaime had left his post. _He wouldn't do that, _she argued. _Whatever his relationship with his sister, he's a good man. _After she could bear the silence no longer, Brienne eased open the door. She found Ser Jaime sitting against the nearest wall; his hand upon his sword. He was biting the inside of his mouth; his knuckles clenched white.

He looked up at her with damp green eyes. "What are you? You've just found out that I fucked my sister, and your first concern is that she doesn't show any consideration for my _feelings_? What _are _you?"

Brienne shrugged. "I'm your friend."

Jaime shook his head. "Friends don't do this."

"Maybe not. I haven't had that many. But I do." Brienne sat beside Jaime in the gap between the door and his shoulder; knocking him into making room. He slid over just enough to accommodate her frame. They sat shoulder to shoulder; hip to hip. "You're in pain, Ser Jaime. And you are one of my people. As your _Queen_, I am here to listen."

"Pulling rank. A _low _blow, Your Grace." But Ser Jaime's shoulders sagged against hers, and once again he allowed her to hear the truth. "I haven't seen my sister in two years. The last time I did was the first, and only, time we made love. It was…wild, and passionate, and it confirmed everything she'd always told me about how we were _meant _to be together, that we shared a soul. I would join the Kingsguard; she would be at court. We could be together all the time; like _that _all the time." He paused. "Go on, say something."

"That's stupid, Ser Jaime." 

"Quite the blunt one, aren't you? I fear for the people." He received an elbow for his wit. "You're right, of course. It was nothing but a silly dream. Then I was in a nightmare, and now I'm waking up from both. Father handed me that letter and I expected her to gush over my safety, to make plans to travel to King's Landing to see me. To ask _why._ Why is it, Your Grace, that you are the only one who has asked _why_?"

"I don't know, Ser Jaime. I wish more people would."

"So do I."

Brienne handed him the strip of parchment with his sister's sweet words scrawled across. Ser Jaime's twin spoke of her support in slaying the king; allowing their family to prosper under a new regime. She spoke of his return to Casterly Rock, and his dismissal from the Kingsguard, so he could once again be by her side and in her bed. She called their new Queen some rather _delightful _names, but Brienne had heard much worse. Cersei Lannister never asked after her brother's health; his happiness. His hope for what he intended to do with his life now that Aerys was dead. She asked nothing of him, and yet _everything. _

"What do you want to do, Ser Jaime?" Brienne asked, pressing her hand to his; the one with his sister's balled up letter inside. "I can dismiss you, if you'd like."

He shook his head. "I don't. I want to stay here and protect my Queen. _My friend._" Ser Jaime smiled at her; perhaps not with the warmth from the throne room, but still with genuine affection. "I'm tired of being a pawn; only wanted when I'm of use. I want to do something for me. I want to be a _knight._"

"And you are, Ser Jaime. One of the finest I've ever met."

They talked for some time after that. A squire brought them food as they moved their conversation inside Ser Jaime's quarters. They shared bread and cheese and stories of how they'd wound up here: the sole Kingsguard in King's Landing, and a Queen barely of her eighteenth year. The more he spoke, the more determined Brienne became to keep the Lannisters away from court. _I won't let you have him, _she thought, of Tywin Lannister and his spiteful daughter. _I won't let you ruin him. He's good, and just, and he is more than you both believe him to be. _

As the candlelight waned, Brienne crawled into Ser Jaime's bed. It had been a long day; longer days still ahead of them. But it would be alright. They had each other. Smiling, Brienne watched, half-awake, as Ser Jaime threw his sister's letter into the fire before taking his post. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter IV, "First of Her Name" will be posted next week.


	4. First Of Her Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne finds a new ally; Jaime struggles with propriety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for not posting this chapter sooner. However, in between posting chapters 3 and 4, I've had to re-plot the story. Chapters have been added; things have been shifted earlier than planned. It should be a smoother, softer exploration of hand!Jaime and queen!Brienne who can't quite stop touching the other. 
> 
> So many thank yous to everyone who has listened to me whine, scream, and cry over re-plotting this story: remuslovestonks, scoundrels-in-love, and agirlnamedkeith - you are all superstars. Also, thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented! Your enthusiasm for this story is overwhelming. I hope you enjoy Chapter 4!

Time moved quickly in King's Landing. Barely a week had passed since the death of Aerys Targaryen – since he'd thrust his sword into the Mad King's back – and already the Red Keep looked like neither madness nor rebellion had touched it. The three headed dragon was replaced by suns and moons; the formidable black swapped for a deep blue. Outside was different. People were still recovering from the sack of the city, but the men their future Queen had sent to help keep order had done wonders for their spirits. Banners had dipped; Eddard Stark had made it to Dorne. It was rumoured Cersei Lannister would marry a Frey.

Pushing aside thoughts of his sister, who only seemed to darken his mood, Jaime knocked on the door to the Queen's chambers. A handmaiden answered; eyes widening as she took in the white and gold. "Y–yes?"

"Please inform Her Grace that Ser Jaime is here. Ser Jon has taken to bed; I am to take next watch."

"Oh. I—"

The door to Brienne's chambers widened; the handmaiden betraying her inexperience when faced with a member of the Queensguard. The _sole _member_. _Brienne had yet to appoint a Lord Commander, the remaining five members of her Guard, or any of her Small Council. She'd intended to wait until after her coronation, which was quickly approaching. _Less than two days away. _Jaime assumed that that was the cause for the bustle in her chambers: he counted no less than _five _women attending to the Queen upon a pedestal as they attempted to fit her for a gown.

It was quite the sight. Like seeing a bear in breeches and a shirt. Jaime didn't mean to be unkind but nothing of this looked _comfortable _or _attractive. _The colour of the fabric did not suit Her Grace; clashing horribly with the way Brienne's skin flushed. The skirt was too wide; the sleeves too puffy. Reams of material were tossed over three chairs and two handmaidens were pulling at the laces at the back to squeeze Brienne into shape. None of the ladies attending the Queen cared to notice the ill-fitting nature of the dress. But Jaime did.

As did Brienne, for, underneath those layers of silk and lace, she looked embarrassed and on the verge of tears.

"I need to have a private word with Her Grace," Jaime announced; his voice cutting through the grunts of the two ladies now knotting the laces across Brienne's broad back. Six women turned towards him; five heads then swivelled to their new Queen. "If you ladies would be so kind as to leave us?" 

Most bowed their head as they departed. One eyed him as if she would stab him with the needle in her grasp. Jaime paid them no mind. Just waited until they were all gone, firmly closed the door with him on the right side, and attended to his Queen. With a gloved hand, he reached for hers. "Are you in pain, Your Grace?"

Brienne winced; face screwed in discomfort. "Laces. Can't breathe."

_Fuck. _"Any objection to me cutting you out of this?"

"_Fuck, _no, it's a hateful thing." Jaime chuckled as he slid out the small dagger he carried; slowly and carefully slicing through the knots and bows the seamstresses had tied to force Brienne into this _monstrosity _of a gown. She sucked in a breath when he cut the last one. "Thank you, Ser Jaime. Now, help me get out of the rest of it; I feel like it's smothering me."

Together they managed to loosen the shapeless dress from Brienne's shoulders and hips. There were pins and broken pieces of whalebone; trails of thread emanating from puckered embroidery. The gown was _truly _hideous, and the handmaidens' attempts to force Brienne into it would no doubt make her feel so. But she was out of it now. Out of the gown, and standing in her chambers in nothing more than her smallclothes. Jaime was suddenly reminded of Brienne wearing nothing more than his shirt, and the way the fabric had smoothed and glided over her upper thigh.

"I should–I need to find my clothes."

Brienne darted around the room, trying to find whatever she had worn before the vultures had descended. They had seemingly become lost under the mountains of material. Without thinking, Jaime unbuckled the white cloak from his shoulders and draped them around hers. _There. Finally a use for that damn thing. _

Brienne pulled the edges of the cloak around her; smiling as brightly as the sun on her house sigil. "Thank you, Ser Jaime."

"Of course, Your Grace."

They stood, just smiling at each other, before all too soon their situation warranted a conversation. Brienne spoke first. "You said something about needing a private word, Ser Jaime?" Her forehead creased; worry etching into her young face. "Has something happened? A letter from Casterly Rock? An issue with one of my soldiers?"

"No, _no_, nothing like that." Jaime had no issue. It was nothing more than an excuse to help his Queen…_his friend_. So he shrugged, and simply said, "How are your new quarters?"

Brienne laughed; nodding once to show she _knew _and she thanked him for his act of kindness. "They're wonderful; thank you, Ser Jaime. I wanted rooms overlooking the sea like I had back on Tarth. It's not quite the same, but every morning I get up, eat, and look out over the water. Come on; I'll show you."

Together they crossed the room and sat at a small table flanked by two chairs. The curtains flapped in the morning breeze, and Jaime could _almost _taste the salt from the sea. Brienne's eyes grew softer whenever she gazed upon the water; he'd noticed it when she walked through the gardens. Jaime watched her now, wrapped in his cloak, as she thought of home. Perhaps Tarth would be the location of her first royal visit. He'd love to see the island she spoke of so fondly.

"The Red Keep feels more like home, now, with that view." Brienne picked at the fruit leftover from breakfast, and pushed the grapes towards Jaime. He took one with a grin. "I'm sure you're glad to get your bed back, Ser."

"I am. Although I rather miss the snoring."

The plate of grapes was suddenly dragged from his grasp. "You're very_ cheeky_ for a Queensguard."

Jaime laughed, lounging back in the chair as if he and Brienne were old friends rather than Queen and Guard. "That's the real reason I had to kill Aerys, you know. He didn't appreciate my wit."

He expected some gentle chastisement from Brienne; a reminder that humour had its place and Jaime was far from the Royal Fool. He did not expect Brienne's bare hand to reach out and touch his face; to brush the dark blonde strands that had fallen across his eyes. Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it. "You look better, Ser Jaime."

Brienne then blinked; her cheeks flushing a deep hue as she no doubt realised the inappropriateness of their position. She meant to pull away, but Jaime's gloved hand held her firm. "_Don't._"

So she didn't. Brienne brushed away the hair covering his face; the pads of her fingers sliding against his scalp. Her touch was gentle; fingers soft as they ran along the length of his cheek. There were familiar callouses on her palm from years of holding a sword. Jaime resisted every urge in him to close his eyes; to savour the feel of Brienne's skin on his. Their earliest interactions had been full of physical affection: comforting hugs and tightly gripped hands. Now she would be Queen, he couldn't reach for her. But she could reach for him, and he would savour those moments until the next. 

As her fingertips curled over his jaw and pulled away, Jaime swallowed. _Back to reality. _"So, what are your plans for today, Your Grace? Am I to stand by whilst villains continue to prick you with needle and thread?" 

Brienne laughed; any tension in the room quickly dissipating. "How about a walk, Ser Jaime?"

\--

With the city still, and every trace of the Targaryen dynasty removed from its walls, Brienne could enjoy a late morning walk through the gardens of the Red Keep. She enjoyed the fresh air; the shock of colour from the flowers and creeping vines. She enjoyed the company even more so: whilst Ser Jon and the handful of guards that formed a mock Queensguard watched her from a distance, Ser Jaime stayed close. They talked: he telling stories of the court and the history from his time spent in King's Landing; she of Tarth and Evenfall Hall.

She felt comfortable with him. A rare occasion these days.

After being cut out of that ill-fitting dress, and draped in Ser Jaime's cloak, Brienne now walked the gardens in the nicest thing she possessed: a jerkin of the deepest blue, with silver and gold buttons crafted into suns and moons. Her sword, made by the master-at-arms in Winterfell, was ever present on her hip. Here and now, she felt _comfortable. _But it was not to last. Not with the looming spectre of her coronation. Not with handmaidens and the handful of courtiers who had flocked to King's Landing to see the Mummers attraction that would take the throne.

Like the woman waiting at the turn of the path. She gave a curtsey as Brienne approached but, rather than give a formal greeting, simply said, "Aren't you just…_marvellous!_"

Brienne blinked; Ser Jaime reaching for his sword: neither sure how to process her words. The woman, much older than either of them, waved Ser Jaime away with a single hand. "Put that silly stick away, boy. I'm hardly a threat to any monarch, least of all one who looks like _this._"

With sharp eyes, the woman took all of her in. Brienne, in turn, stared at her. She was shorter than Brienne and Ser Jaime, but held herself well. Her head and hair were wrapped in a scarf of deep blue; almost a match to the jerkin Brienne wore. A broach, shaped like a golden rose, was pinned above her breast.

"Lady Olenna Tyrell, Your Grace. I've been sent by my son to represent our house at your coronation."

_The Tyrells. _Brienne had slain several men with roses on their banners. "Your son was holding the siege at Storm's End."

"He was. Loyal to the very end." _Until Ned had rode up with half their forces announcing the death of the king. _"I, however, prefer to run with the winning side. A trait I and your father have in common, boy."

Beside her, Ser Jaime stood rigid; still considering Lady Olenna a threat. Brienne knew little of the Tyrell matriarch, or what Olenna wished from her. So Brienne simply offered a polite acknowledgement, as one no doubt expected of a queen. "I am grateful for House Tyrell's fealty, my Lady."

"We dare not, after all the stories we've heard. The blood you spilled at the Trident was a thing of _wonder _according to some of our banners." Brienne flushed. Lady Tyrell simply smiled. "Come, honour me with an audience."

Olenna made to link her arm with Brienne's. Ser Jaime placed his hand upon her other arm; his thumb softly pressing into flesh. "Her Grace—"

"—will be fine for a moment, boy."

Brienne was caught in a battle of wills: Lady Olenna, clearly used to getting what she desired; Ser Jaime, utterly determined to protect his Queen. Ignoring the rush of warmth at Ser Jaime's touch through two layers of fabric, Brienne had to admit she _was_ intrigued as to Olenna's interest in her. Turning away from Lady Tyrell, Brienne placed her hand over Ser Jaime's glove. His reaction was immediate. Both of them, stuck in positions of distrust over _months _with little kindness or touch, seemed to relish these brief moments of intimacy. A human connection after months, _years _of death. It took him longer than expected, and _accepted, _to pull away.

"Thank you, Ser Jaime."

Mouth twitching, accepting her victory without comment, Lady Tyrell held Brienne's arm as they made their way along the well-worn path through the gardens. Ser Jaime stayed close, but just out of earshot. Olenna looked over her shoulder at the sole Queensguard. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen a lion so loyal."

Brienne could not help the smile that cut across her face. "Ser Jaime is my friend."

"Strange, considering he murdered your predecessor."

Brienne blanched at Olenna's brutal turn of phrase, and halted their procession long enough to look Lady Tyrell in the eye. "Ser Jaime is a good man, who broke his vows for the _right _reasons. I will not allow a harsh word said of his character in my presence."

Olenna's lips twitched again. "Ser Jaime is a lucky man to have earned such loyalty from the Crown. I had heard rumours that this city would have been a pile of smouldering ash without his intervention. It seems, for once, that they are true."

Satisfied with her response, Brienne allowed their walk to continue. They made the few paces to an open veranda looking out over the ocean. Brienne was swept up in the beauty of the sea; Lady Olenna glancing back at the stoic Ser Jaime standing guard. "I can see why you keep him around, though. He's not that bad to look at, is he?"

Ser Jaime cleared his throat; Brienne pointedly looking at one of the boats leaving Blackwater Bay. Ser Jaime was a beautiful man; she'd known that since the tourney at Harrenhal. But his beauty had little to do with his presence in her life; though Brienne wasn't naïve enough to think that others would believe that. "We must make quite the odd couple. The most handsome man in all Seven Kingdoms guarding the ugliest woman in all of Westeros."

Lady Tyrell pursed her lips; eyes moving over Brienne's face in cold appraisal. "No, you're not pretty. And you might find some of the nobles – those prissy little prats – have an issue with that. But do you know who doesn't? _Your people. _Do you know what they call you?"

Brienne could only imagine: she'd been called so many things in her time; none of them good. "I shudder to think."

"They call you _The Warrior Queen. _They're talking in the taverns about how you cut down a Kingsguard at the Trident. They're talking in the streets about the people you got to safety when you and the rebel forces arrived. And in the brothels—" Brienne's eyes widened. "Well, Your Grace, some men and more than a few women like them built like you." 

Brienne struggled to believe Lady Tyrell's words. Every hideous thing she could be called had fallen from someone's lips; every action she'd ever taken had been questioned and challenged and Brienne had had to fight them _all. _She knew the nobility would have difficulty with her appearance; if not in public then behind cupped hands and closed doors. Brienne could not imagine that the people liked her. That they _celebrated _who she was.

She accepted Ser Jaime's kindness after all they'd shared. She struggled to do the same with Olenna. "What is it that you want, Lady Tyrell? I do not need to be seduced by sweet words; I prefer forthrightness in all things."

"I'm sure you do." Olenna smiled, staring openly at Brienne once more. "Just…_look at you. _They fear you, you know. The _lords _of Westeros. They've seen you on the battlefield but the war is over. If they'll have their way, you'll be saddled with a husband and popping out babes before your first year is done. You'll be a footnote to your husband, and the mother of a king. That's _all. _But that's not enough for you, or for me. I want you to succeed and to show them what we can do."

"We?"

"_We. _Women. I've watched too many men on and behind that throne lead this country to war, and to worse. You, Your Grace, have been granted _unimaginable _power and it's time the women of this realm understood what that's like. For every woman with a firm grip on her House, there are those being traded like cattle. Not all of them will find their power like you. Some women find strength in silk and lace. I do. I imagine you prefer leather and steel."

The morning's events – the huffing and tutting as five women tried to force her to be something she wasn't – came rushing back. "I do."

"Then you need to _show_ them," Olenna said; her tone suggesting no deference. "They'll fight you; they'll try to make you into something you aren't. Some of those lords would have preferred Robert Baratheon's rotting corpse on the throne and the boy's sister draped in all her finery. But you're not her, and you're not him, either. You are _you _and that has brought you this far."

Brienne stood, swaying; bowled over by Olenna's words. Not even her beloved father had been so adamant that she be _herself: _as his only child, he'd needed her to conform to some extent. Perhaps her mother would have been like Olenna: firm, supportive, assuring. But with no mother, no fellow women to confide in, Brienne felt herself spill her earlier shame to Lady Tyrell. "My coronation gown. It's ghastly. I know I'll never be—" _Pretty. _"I just don't want them to laugh at me."

"Well, it's a good thing I took the liberty of bringing the House Tyrell tailor to court." Brienne beamed. "I'll send him a message; we can begin the fitting this afternoon. Consider it an early coronation gift from House Tyrell, Your Grace."

As Lady Olenna summoned a nearby servant, Brienne slid Jaime a hopeful glance. Any trepidation in his frame was gone; he seemed as pleased by Lady Tyrell's offer as she. For the first time since agreeing to take the throne, Brienne started to believe she would not be unworthy, would not be an utter _joke, _as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

\---

"Your Grace? It's Ser Jaime. _It's_ _time._"

Ser Jaime Lannister, the first and currently sole member of Brienne's Queensguard, stood outside her chambers waiting to escort his new Queen to her coronation. The Red Keep had been a flurry of activity all day: lords and ladies from across the kingdoms arriving in the capital to bear witness; servants and squires hanging Tarth flags and making platter after platter of delicacies for the coronation feast. Jaime had begun the day, as he always did, walking with his Queen in the gardens. However, Ser Jon had taken over at midday so Jaime could receive new armour fresh from the forge.

He stood, golden suns and moons etched into his new breastplate, as he waited for his Queen to open the door. It was worth the wait.

"Better than the dress?" Brienne asked; teeth teasing her bottom lip as she waited for his approval.

Jaime swallowed, mouth falling open, as he took in his Queen's coronation apparel. "Brienne, you look—"

"—suitable?"

"_Beautiful._"

And she did. Honestly, truly: in that moment, with Brienne looking like _that, _Jaime did not think he had seen anything more beautiful in all his days. He'd first seen her in bloodied boots; the soles worn and creased. These were made of the softest leather; reaching just above her knee. The material of her breeches clung to the firm muscle of her thighs; the power in her long legs evident with every shift and step. Her tunic was of the deepest blue; tailored at the pinch of her waist with an open neckline revealing a hint of her breasts. Gold lace and cord wrapped around her torso; an intricate, almost delicate, breastplate befitting a Warrior Queen. A red cloak, the final colour of the Tarth sigil, completed the ensemble.

With her hair pulled back from her face, and her lips stained red, Jaime was once again reminded of his first impression of her: one of the Seven come to life. The Maiden blushed; head bowed from the force of his compliment. "You're too kind, Ser Jaime."

"It's not a kindness; it's a truth. You look _beautiful_." Jaime smiled at her; his smile widening as her cheeks turned a different hue. "I mean it. Like Lady Tyrell said: you feel comfortable in leather and steel. You look like a Queen _far _more than in that gown they were trying to foist upon you."

"Well, _thank you_." Brienne reached out a tentative hand and touched his new armour. Gentle fingertips traced the curves of the moon, the tendrils of the sun; her smile as soft as her touch. "This suits you."

"I agree. Got a new sword, too."

Whilst he had no regrets for his actions that day, and Brienne's gratitude of the act had cemented the bond between them, it felt strange protecting one monarch whilst wielding the sword he had used to slay another. Earlier that day, whilst collecting his armour from the blacksmith, Jaime had pressed the blade into the man's hand and watched as the steel melted before his very eyes. Two gold dragons had paid for a sword he could wield in its stead; it would do until he could commission something new, something worthy of a knight of the Queensguard. He hadn't wanted to stand on that dais beside Brienne carrying _that _sword; the stain of Aerys' blood only recently scrubbed away. Today was a fresh start. For him, and for Brienne.

"So are you ready, Your Grace?"

"As I will ever be, Ser Jaime." A crease formed across her brow. "Do you think they'll laugh at me?"

No previous King would have needed to ask such a question; the weight of their authority deemed by _birth. _But up until a week ago, Brienne was nothing more than a young woman from the Stormlands; more familiar with a sword in her hand than needle and thread. People could be cruel, and he could only imagine the ridicule and mocking accompanying someone of her size, her features.

"No one will _dare_," Jaime said, wanting nothing more than to offer his arm or his hand; some _comfort _like she so readily gave him. "You are their Queen. I'll personally remove the tongue of anyone who does so."

"_Ser Jaime._"

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly; relishing the joy at not serving a monarch who would willingly maim someone over the most minor indiscretion. "_Fine. _I will glare at them, Your Grace, until they feel properly chastised."

"Good." Beaming, Brienne closed the short distance between them and brushed her lips across his cheek. Her hand then lingered against his shoulder as she whispered in his ear. "I'm not sure I could do this without you, Ser Jaime."

His hand hovered near her elbow, her arm; wanting to touch but not daring to. "I'm not going anywhere. But _you_ should: your coronation awaits, Your Grace."

With a single nod, Brienne stepped away and began her long walk to the crown. Jaime fell into position behind her. They entered the throne room as Brienne had one week before: the large doors splitting open; a red trail leading her way to the Iron Throne. Representatives from all the old houses had come; minor nobility dressed in their finest. Rebel soldiers, now part of the City Guard, lined the aisle that Brienne walked along. It was quiet, like _before. _No words, no whispers. Just awed silence as Brienne took the throne.

She sat, settling herself against the steel. The Septon took his place, and reached for the newly forged crown. Suns and moons; made from gold allegedly found in the Lannisport mines, and set with sapphires that were outshone by the brightness in Brienne's eyes. A crown befitting a Warrior Queen

Standing beside Brienne, Jaime cast his eye into the crowd. He recognised several faces: Lady Tyrell, beaming with what he could only assume to be pride; Ser Brynden Tully, discreetly swallowing his affections. He had yet to meet Brienne's father, Lord Selwyn, but the broad man with red-rimmed eyes was not hard to miss. Across the aisle, his father stood. For a brief moment; fear gripped Jaime's stomach. _Was Cersei—_no, thankfully not. If anyone would have dared spit barbs at their new Queen, it would have been his _dear _sister.

No one else did. No laughs, no jeers. Just a hushed room as the Septon finally placed the crown atop Brienne's head.

"In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Brienne of the House Tarth, first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. _Long may she reign!_"

"LONG MAY SHE REIGN!"

The entire room burst into applause and cheers; Lord Selwyn's voice carrying over the crowd. As the people embraced their new Queen, Brienne looked to him. Jaime grinned, allowing himself a single moment in front of the court – his _father _– to mouth the words _long may you reign. _He'd meant those words, before, when it was just the two of them. It would take an act of the Seven to remove him from Brienne's side. Thankfully, his visage of the Maiden wanted him just where he was.


	5. All the Small Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne makes her first appointment as Queen; Jaime makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Chapter V was going to be a follow-up to the coronation. But as I began writing it, I realised the JB interactions were fairly minimal, and it seemed easier to skip over that and get to the first turning point in the story. 
> 
> Huge thank you to remuslovestonks for literally reading over the story about an hour ago to make sure it all fitted together. I hope you all enjoy!

The sun had risen and set six times since Brienne had been crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; the feasting and merriment only recently coming to an end. Most of the High Lords had remained in the capital; knights and soldiers, too. All were hoping to receive a letter from the Queen, sealed in blue wax, informing them of their new position. Wardens, the Small Council, the Queensguard: all required new appointments under her regime. Only two Lords could not be accounted for: Lord Stark, who remained in Dorne, and Lord Tarth, who had returned home.

Brienne stood upon the balcony of the chambers she had claimed as office of the Queen, and stared out onto the familiar blue water. She hadn't wished him to go, he hadn't wished to leave. But her father had to take care of his people, and Brienne hers.

A familiar three raps echoed loudly in the chamber. The dark clouds that had hung overhead seemed to part at the knowledge of who was behind the door. "Come in, Ser Jaime."

There was a faint chuckle, and the large doors to her office creaked open. "You know, I think I must be getting predicta—_fuck, _that's a lot of gifts."

"Coronation gifts from every lord and lady across the Seven Kingdoms." Brienne bid a silent farewell to the water, and returned to her desk. She sat back; more comfortable against the wooden chair than the blades of the Iron Throne. "My squire finished cataloguing them this morning."

"I can certainly see why it took him six days."

The hand that usually rested upon the hilt of his sword now admired the many gifts Brienne had been given. Lengths of beautiful fabric for the Tyrell tailor to fashion into jerkins and even a well-fitting dress. Books of Westerosi history; several musical instruments. House Tully had gifted Brienne an ornate dagger with a sun and moon carved into the hilt. Ser Jaime felt the weight of it in his hand, throwing a grin over his shoulder.

"Your favourite, I assume?"

"_Of course_. There are some fruits and nuts in here, as well, if you're hungry."

Brienne needn't have offered, as Ser Jaime had already found the apples; one as red as his house colours sitting plump between his lips. Perhaps embarrassed by his presumption, he just stood there; not biting into the crisp flesh. He made quite the portrait, and Brienne could not help but laugh. His green eyes narrowed. She explained, "You look like a prize pig at market, Ser Jaime."

He grinned, then, and took a large bite. He chewed, meeting her gaze with every motion of his jaw. When Ser Jaime swallowed, he offered her another smile. "Thank you, Your Grace: you are too generous with your compliments. Apple?"

"Thank you."

Brienne caught the proffered fruit in her open hands. She bit into the skin, enjoying the sweet taste on her tongue. It was moments like these that Brienne cherished: despite the armour he wore, and the crown resting upon her head, right now they were just Jaime and Brienne. Two friends who had found themselves at the end of a long war, and now enjoyed the quiet and the company of the other. She wished it could be like this always. Sadly, with more people due to join her inner circle, these moments would grow few and far between.

Ser Jaime seemed to sense her melancholy, as he quickly drew her attention elsewhere. "Tell me, Your Grace, what did House Lannister gift our new Queen?"

"Several books, apparently recommended by your younger brother." The inscriptions inside had been written in a careful hand, with a promise to share numerous embarrassing stories about his older brother when the youngest Lannister visited the capital. "Some beautiful pieces of sapphire jewellery." A gift, perhaps, intended to be from Ser Jaime's sister. Brienne had yet, and was reluctant, to wear them. "And that box over there, but don't—"

"_Fuck, _that's a severed head!"

"—open it. Yes, Ser Jaime, it's a severed head."

He closed the box where the rotting head sat, surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers in a macabre display. Ser Jaime ruminated for a moment, before offering her a sly smile. "That's the severed head of Gregor Clegane. My father took the head of his bannerman for you."

"For the chance to win my favour, yes. I have no doubt he wishes to regain his former position of Hand."

"Has the head swayed you?"

Brienne shook hers. Every moment of the day Aerys Targaryen had died – the day she had taken the throne – was burned into her memory. Ned's vehemence that Tywin Lannister must not be allowed to take control; Ser Jaime's dismissal of his own father's virtues. To say nothing of Lord Lannister's presentation of Elia Martell and her children. _A necessary step, _he'd called it, _to ensure your sovereignty. _Brienne called it murder. Clegane's head was penance for his actions, not a commendation to one of the highest positions in the land. _No, _Tywin Lannister would not be her Hand.

"_Good._" Ser Jaime's tone was firm; his hands flat against the closed box. "Most men would be swayed with much less."

"I am not most, Ser Jaime, and I am _certainly _not a man." 

He chuckled; a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Two fingers tapped the box three times; Ser Jaime lost in a moment of quiet reflection. Then he came to her. Approached her side of the desk and dropped to one knee. Ser Jaime reached for her hand, clasping the bare skin within his gloves. Her breath hitched; Brienne could not recall the last time he'd been the one to initiate contact between them. His touch was warm, and gentle, and Brienne did not care _why _he had done so, just that he had done it all. Mouth a thin line, emerald eyes uncertain; Ser Jaime pressed her hand to his heart.

"I have nothing to offer you, Your Grace. No fruits or books or fabric. I have no gift to show my devotion, just myself." _Oh, Ser Jaime, your friendship is more than gift enough. _"I would like you to appoint me Lord Commander of your Queensguard."

"Ser Jaime—"

He sighed; head bowing as if the simple act of saying his name was a dismissal. "I know I'm young; the youngest Kingsguard ever sworn. But I'm devoted to you, Your Grace, and to keeping you safe. All I wish is for you to have a long and happy reign." He swallowed, moving closer. "Please, allow me the honour of being your Lord Commander."

Ser Jaime looked so heartfelt, so _earnest_, that Brienne almost agreed without any consideration. Having Jaime as her Lord Commander would have its benefits: he could assign the duties of who guarded her and when; they could spend as much time together as they did now. But there would always be a line between them. The boundary between _guard _and _queen. _He would keep her safe, keep her counsel, and give his life for hers. He would serve her unwaveringly, Brienne knew that. But Brienne did not want her closest friend in servitude to her; to forever keep him at arm's length.

Before she could respond to Ser Jaime's request, there was a hurried pounding at the door. Her hand fell; Ser Jaime taking his proper position. Brienne frowned, but quickly addressed the interruption. "Yes?"

Her squire entered. "Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but it's Lord Stark. He's just arrived from Dorne."

\--

Eddard Stark had finally returned to King's Landing, and Jaime was left outside the courtyard whilst their Queen granted the Lord of Winterfell an audience. _I should be in there, _Jaime thought, _protecting her. _Instead, he waited. He was always waiting, watching; never _doing. _As Lord Commander, he could do more, _be more. _But Brienne's face back in her office had said it all: he was too young; his name too tarnished. Jaime accepted that elevating the man who had slain her predecessor to the role of Lord Commander would make some question her judgement. But whoever took the role – Ser Barristan, most likely; Ser Brynden, perhaps – left Jaime in a similar position.

_Powerless. _

Footsteps echoed across the cobbled floor. He turned, briefly, to witness Lord Stark crossing into the hall. A tired, mangy wolf; the days and weeks since the death of Aerys Targaryen had not been kind to him. Regrettably, his grief seemed to manifest itself into anger at the very sight of Jaime in his white cloak and golden armour. His stare was as cold as it had been that day in the throne room, and Jaime's anger built, too. _Why, Lord Stark. You never asked me _why.

"Have you finished your audience with Her Grace?" Jaime asked, as dismissively as he could muster.

Stark nodded. "I have. I'm now to see Ser Brynden, before returning to Winterfell."

"You don't wish to stay in the capital? I'm sure Her Grace will welcome you."

"_Her Grace._" Stark closed the gap between them; grey eyes as dangerous as hidden ice. "You stand there, wearing that cloak, acting like you didn't kill the man who sat on the throne before her. You should know, I've advised Brienne to send you to the Wall. Arryn thinks you should go back to the Rock. Either way, neither of us will be staying in the capital for very long."

Jaime grinned, looming over him. "Unfortunately, _for you, _I'm not going anywhere. The Kingsguard serve for life."

Stark chuckled; the smile quickly falling from Jaime's lips. "There is no longer a Kingsguard, Lannister. There is only my Queen, and her trusted guard."

With that, Ned Stark took his leave. Jaime blinked, struggling to put his thoughts into order. The idea of being dismissed because of what lay between the monarch's legs seemed _absurd _– but it was the sort of loophole that Jaime's own father would exploit. _Brienne won't dismiss you. You're her friend; she cares about you. _Just then, she called for him. Jaime entered the courtyard, ready to face anything. He did not, however, expect to face his Queen holding an infant in her arms.

"That's a baby."

"Your powers of observation are undeniable, Ser Jaime."

"As is your wit, Your Grace, but you must admit no one would expect to find you holding a child." Jaime joined Brienne on the stone bench, admiring the babe in her arms. Dark hair; grey eyes. _A beauty. _

Brienne certainly seemed smitten. "Would you like to hold him, Ser Jaime?"

"_Yes._" His adamant tone surprised even him, but he welcomed the babe into his arms. _Do you see, Stark? Our Queen trusts me with the most innocent of tasks. _Brienne settled the infant against him; the babe's grey eyes staring up at him in wonder. "What are we calling you, hmm?"

"Jon."

_A good name. _Jaime had little experience with babes; he'd held Tyrion once or twice, but such tasks were usually set aside for mothers, midwives, and wet nurses. He didn't understand why. If Jaime's son was as pure, as lovely, as little Jon, Jaime would never let him out of his arms. Perhaps, if Cersei ever spoke to him again, he could hold his nephews and nieces. Teach them how to fight, how to ride. He'd never thought to be a father; his deference towards his sister leading him down a different path. _Such a shame. _Jaime thought he might even be good at it.

Little Jon's hand, loose of its swaddling, brushed Jaime's fingers. He sighed. Such a sweet thing. Hair dark as night; eyes as grey as the densest fog. Almost reminiscent of Lord Stark. Jaime considered something, and turned to Brienne. Her face once again betrayed her. "Lord Stark didn't bring his sister back from Dorne, but he brought something else. Some_one _else."

"Yes." She reached out, holding Jon's tiny hand within hers. "Lyanna died in the birthing bed. This is his nephew."

"Rhaegar's son." There was little of the Targaryen prince in Jon, but no one else could be the father. Anger bubbled up inside him: Rhaegar had impregnated another whilst leaving his wife and children at the mercy of a madman; to then be slain upon the orders of Jaime's father. Those poor children. Little Jon sneezed. _Your poor brother and sister. _"We have to keep him safe, Brienne. We can't–_no one can know about him._ Not Arryn, not Tully; _certainly _not my father: they will kill him, to ensure your rule."

"I know." Gentle fingers brushed the top of the babe's head. "Lyanna made Ned promise not to tell Robert, but Robert is dead. Lyanna was kind to me; we would sneak out into the forest and spar with tourney swords. I would give up my throne for her son in a heartbeat."

"There are those that would force you to, even if he is a bastard." Jaime held the infant closer; a thought striking him. "He _is _a bastard. He could be Robert's bastard."

"Ned had the same thought, although he would claim to be the father himself."

Jaime waved his hand, swiping away Stark's ridiculous proposition. "Honourable Eddard Stark fathering a bastard? People are fools, but many would question it. They'd question you, too, as he was the chief supporter of your ascension to the throne. _No, _better he be Robert's bastard. He already has one, at the very least. Ned can raise him as a tribute to his dead friend. If Jon ever discovers the truth, you can grant him Dragonstone as an offering as Rhaegar's bastard son."

Beside him, Brienne said nothing. He turned to her, swept away by her eyes that held all the warmth of the ocean on a summer's day. She placed her hand atop his, currently cradling the infant's head. "Be my Hand."

He blinked, unsure he had heard correctly. "I'm sorry?"

"Jaime, I am asking you to be Hand of the Queen."

_Jaime. She called me Jaime. _He smiled; his lips pulling wide at the corners as Brienne dropped his honorific. It faltered as he truly comprehended what she was asking of him: to renounce the Kingsguard (if there was such a thing anymore), and his vows (as if he had not done so already) and to serve her – the kingdoms – as her Hand. "I–I am _honoured _by the offer, Your Grace."

"So take it. Say yes, Jaime."

There it was again. _Jaime. _Could he call her _Brienne, _now? If he became Hand, could he do that? Could he touch her? Could he reach for her like he longed to? _Stop it. You're getting ahead of yourself._ "I'm sure there are better candidates, Your Grace. Someone more intelligent, perhaps."

"An intelligent man would have killed the child you cradle to secure my throne. I want someone I can trust, Jaime. I want someone who will challenge me if I make the wrong decision, and support me above all others if they consider it the right one. You're the man I want, Jaime. No one else." She paused; head bowing. "I know you had your heart set on Lord Commander—"

"—give me the day?"

She beamed. It wasn't a refusal. Not yet. "As long as you need. Until I have your answer, I will ask no one else."

Jaime just nodded, quickly returning his attentions to the babe in his arms. _I could keep you safe as Hand. I could keep a lot of people safe. Including my Queen. Including _me.

\--

"JAIME!"

Brienne snapped upright; fingers clutching sweat-soaked sheets. It took a moment to come back to herself; to realise she was in her chambers and not the throne room. There was no pile of bodies; no babes wrapped in bloodied shrouds. Tywin Lannister's voice still rang in her ears, however, and when Brienne closed her eyes she bore witness to Jaime's body, broken and bleeding at the bottom of her throne. _A necessary step to ensure your sovereignty. _She choked back a sob, and buried herself in the pillows.

A single knock echoed in the still room. "Are you all right, Your Grace?"

"I'm fine, Ser Jon," she croaked. "I'm fine."

She was anything but. The dream lingered, clinging to her like a bad smell. Brienne needed to walk, run, swim. _Anything _to replace the stiffness of her limbs and the ache in her chest. Stepping foot outside that door, however, was impossible. Kings did not have nightmares. They did not dream of the dead bodies of their friends; their inability to protect the ones they loved despite the crown upon their head. Brienne would not give them any more reason to belittle her, think her unworthy. Thankfully, Jaime had shown her secret doors and hidden passages. She could leave her room unnoticed.

So, with a cloak around her shoulders and a pair of boots upon her feet, Brienne slipped into the night.

Her favourite spot in the Red Keep was a veranda overlooking the Godswood. The old trees and the view over the sea reminded Brienne of home, and she sought the water now more than ever. Yet, as she approached her favourite place, she realised it was occupied. Despite the earliness of the hour, the sun barely beginning to crest over the horizon, another figure sat consumed by bad dreams. Brienne drew in a ragged breath as she realised it was Jaime. _Her Jaime. _She finally saw him without the white cloak and golden armour; he wore now a plain shirt and breeches. The early morning breeze caught in his dark-blonde hair, blowing it across his shoulders. The first rays of sun touched his lips, his eyes.

_Gods, he really is the most beautiful man. Like the Warrior come to life. _

"Bad dreams?" she called to him.

Jaime startled; his features softening as he realised it was only her. But then his mouth thinned, his eyes growing hard, as he saw that she was alone. "Where are Ser Jon and Ser Randyll?" he asked, peering behind her as if the two guards would magically appear upon the utterance of their names.

"Back inside. I needed some fresh air."

He drew in a sharp breath. "_Your Grace_—"

"_Please don't_, Jaime." She couldn't–not when…_not when. _"I don't need you to be my guard right now. I–I need you to be my friend."

Despite sitting right in front of her, Brienne could still see Jaime lying broken at her feet. Could still smell the stench of rotting corpses; the taste of copper in the back of her throat. Whatever showed upon her face – and Brienne knew it was as honest and plain as the rest of her – Jaime relented. His shoulders fell; his voice soft as he called to her. "Come here_, _Brienne_. _Let me hold you."

She barely recalled taking the few paces to the bench he sat upon. All she knew was the weight of Jaime's arm as it curled around her shoulders, bringing her into him. Her head pressed into the curve of his neck; her hand lingering around his waist. She clutched the fabric of his shirt, so similar to the one she had slept in those first few nights in King's Landing, and let herself break. Just for a moment; just a few tears. The lords of nightmares wanted their fealty in fear or sorrow, and Brienne pledged her offering as Jaime held her close.

Lords assuaged, Brienne stilled in his arms. Yet his grip was still firm; his body trembling around hers. Brienne looked at him: Jaime paid his dues in fear. "What is it? What did you dream?"

"I dreamed of you." His fingers brushed the hair across her temple. "Aerys was burning you in your armour, like he did Lord Stark. And I…I was Brandon. Trapped in some contraption from across the sea; unable to save you. All I could hear…all I could _do…_"

Jaime trailed off; the anguish in his voice stabbing her through the heart. Brienne wrapped herself around him like she had that first time. She would do so again and again for as long as the Mad King continued to torment Jaime from beyond the grave. Brienne held him until she felt his breathing slow, and he eased her away until it was solely his arm wrapped around her back. His fingertips toyed with strands of blonde hair; no longer brittle, and curling slightly at the ends. She could not recall a time she had been touched so much. She could not recall anyone wanting to do so other than her father.

"I've wanted to do this for so long. Reach out, _hold you._" His hand crept higher; brushing the hair from her face. "I see you; I see your whole world turned upside down. I feel it too, but the difference is that I have _you. _I want you to have me, Brienne. All of me."

"Does this mean you accept?" No more safe distances; no more concerns about inappropriate behaviour between queen and guard. They could breakfast together, and spar, and he would call her _Brienne. _And he _Jaime_. "You'll be my Hand?"

Jaime nodded, and Brienne felt the last vestiges of her nightmare slip away. He took her hand, as he had in her office; only this time he pressed it to his lips. "If that dream has shown me anything, it's that I want control over my own life. I can no longer be a spectator whilst the world happens around me. As Hand, I will answer to no one. Not my father; not my sister. Just you. And I trust you to never ask a service of me that will bring me dishonour."

Those words meant something to people like them. She meant her answer, too. "Never, Jaime, _never._"

He grinned, placing another hurried kiss upon her knuckles. "You know, Stark won't like this. Others won't, either. They'll question your judgement in appointing me Hand."

Brienne was undeterred. "All my life, people have doubted me. _Challenged _me. And all my life I've shown them what I'm capable of. I'll show them again, if I have to. _We'll _show them."

By now, the early morning sun was rising over the sea. A new day. _A new beginning. _The seventh day after her coronation, and Brienne had made her first appointment. Ser Jaime Lannister, her most trusted friend, would serve as her Hand. Together they would protect the innocent, the downtrodden. They would be just in their actions and acceptant of the consequences. And they would be brave by renouncing all they had ever known to serve the Kingdoms.

Such things required bravery. But they would do it together.


	6. The Queen and Her Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne struggle with their new roles; the rest of the Small Council is appointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a HUGE thank you to everyone who has commented and pressed kudos on this story. The response to the last chapter was *immense* and I am utterly thrilled that everyone is enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it!
> 
> Secondly, a shout out to agirlnamedkeith and scoundrels-in-love who provided some last-minute hand-holding as I battled over this chapter. 
> 
> Finally, I've altered the posting schedule for 'Head, Hand, Heart'. Barring any RL issues, a new chapter will be posted every Saturday. I know I'm cutting it fine today, and I hope you enjoy it!

_"My Lord? My Lord Hand?" _

_Somewhere far, far away, there was a knocking sound. Three raps against a door; a chair banging against stone. Jaime didn't care. Whoever, _whatever, _could wait. The sun was streaming in through crimson drapes, and Jaime lay upon fresh sheets with his hand on Brienne's hip. She was warm through the fabric of her shift; his thumb drawing slow circles on her skin. Brienne pressed her face into the pillows; her smile just visible above the linens. Every so often she would close those blue eyes and sigh, as if this moment was the best of her life. Jaime knew that feeling well. Lying beside her, the whole world behind a locked door, was the best of his. _

_The banging persisted. "Someone should really deal with that." _

_Turning onto her back, Jaime's hand still touching her hip, Brienne offered him a lazy smile. She tugged on the laces of his shirt; her hand brushing down the front. "They're talking to you, you know." _

_"My Lord? My Lord Hand?" _

Jaime startled awake; his dream world fading to reality in an instant. Yet he still looked to his left, as if Brienne would be there. He felt almost disappointed that she wasn't. _Just a dream. _The Queen would be in the Queen's chambers, not in the Tower of the Hand. _The Hand. _Two days ago, Jaime had accepted Brienne's offer to be Hand to the Queen. Last night was his first in his new abode; the White Sword Tower and the Kingsguard forgotten in favour of a seat beside the Queen, chambers almost as big as those at Casterly Rock, and a personal staff of thirty. One of whom was rather insistent.

_"My Lord Hand?" _

"I'm _coming._" Jaime abandoned his warm bed and padded over to the door. He flung it open, greeted by Ser Martyn. Barely a year older than Jaime himself; now one of the Hand's household guards. He had a _household _now. "Yes?"

"Forgive me, my Lord, but the Queen has asked if you'll join her for breakfast."

Jaime grinned. _Breakfast with the Queen. _Their first shared meal since the early days of their friendship; not counting the food she'd practically shoved down his gullet after her coronation feast, fearing he would topple over without nourishment. _Breakfast with Brienne. _One of the many perks of being Hand to the Queen_. _"Thank you, Ser Martyn. If you could inform Her Grace that I'll be honoured to join her. Oh, and send in one of the servants with some fresh water."

Ser Martyn nodded, quickly departing to carry out his orders. Jaime closed the door to his new chambers and set about finding something appropriate to wear. For the last two years, he'd worn nothing more than the uniform of the Kingsguard: golden armour, white cloak, tan jacket. It felt strange lacing up new boots; fastening breeches a different colour. The red jerkin felt both alien and welcoming; the familiar colours of House Lannister leaving him with the sharp sensation of finally coming _home. _

When the servant knocked this time, Jaime was ready. He welcomed the young woman with a smile, and made sure to thank her profusely for bringing fresh water and towels. This part wasn't new to him; he'd been served since he was a child. But the staff at Casterly Rock had feared ruin; the servants and handmaidens at the Red Keep feared death. Jaime would not be his father, and he would not be Aerys, either. He would be _him, _and he would make sure everyone who worked in this damn castle felt safe.

Face washed, body clothed, Jaime walked the familiar halls to Brienne's chambers. Standing outside was two of Stark's men, appointed to protect Brienne in the earliest days of her reign. Soon they would be replaced by better men, stronger men, of the Queensguard. Ser Jon's nostril's flared, bottom lip curling in disgust, as he saw Jaime with neither white cloak nor golden armour. His cocky smile just infuriated the man further. "Her Grace has invited me to join her for breakfast."

Ser Jon pounded on the door with all the refinement Jaime would expect from a Northern brute. "Jaime Lannister to see you, Your Grace."

"_Let him in, Ser Jon._"

As instructed, the door opened, and Jaime granted passage. Although it had been two days since Brienne had found him overlooking the Godswood, this would be the first time he would enter this room as Hand. As the closest anyone in the Kingdoms would be to her equal. Brienne stood by the table overlooking Blackwater Bay; her gaze immediately leaving the water to wash over him. He bowed as low and deep as he always had done.

"Your Grace."

"Ser Jaime." By the Gods, he was starting to loathe that _Ser. _"Thank you for accepting my invitation. Breakfast is on its way from the kitchens, if you'd like to take a seat?" Brienne then looked past him to the lingering figure of Ser Jon. "That will be all."

Jaime didn't have to glance at the man to know what expression he wore upon his dour features. Thankfully the door closed quickly, leaving Brienne and Jaime alone in her chambers. Both of them were still for a moment; the rapid changes in their relationship leaving them on uneven ground. But then Brienne began crossing the room to meet him, and Jaime stumbled forward into her arms. They wrapped around his shoulders; one hand sinking into his hair whilst her face pressed to his. Both his arms curled around her back and held her flush against him. His nose brushed her cheek, before he buried his face in the curve of her neck. She smelled like rainwater; her body as warm as a perfect summer's eve.

Her fingers sifted through his hair; thumb running along the shell of his ear. "Good morning, Jaime."

"Good morning, Brienne." _Gods _her name felt good on his tongue. She felt good in his arms, too. _Better _than good. "Can we start every morning like this?"

Her laughter reverberated through him. "_Yes, _Jaime. For as long as we want to, we can start every day like this."

"_Good._"

They stood, locked in an embrace, until the servants arrived with breakfast. With great reluctance, Jaime pulled away and took a seat overlooking the sea. Brienne's hand squeezed his shoulder before she took the seat opposite him. The servants then brought in jugs of fresh water sweetened with lemon; ale that would remain untouched. Warm bread and mountains of fruit; freshly caught fish and glistening bacon. A feast fit for a Queen. They both thanked the servants, and were once again left to their own devices. Brienne pushed the platter of fruit in his direction, and tore off a chunk of bread to eat with the bacon. Every so often they would stop, and look, and clasp their hands atop the table.

When the feast was nothing more than crumbs and pips, they both stared out over the Bay. As her Queensguard, Jaime would only now be making his way to her chambers. Brienne would take a walk in the gardens, then; Jaime accompanying her best he could. Now, though…"What's next for us, Brienne? Our usual walk in the gardens?"

"Perhaps later. For now, Ser, I require your guidance as my Hand. I still have my Small Council to decide upon, and a number of pardons to declare," Brienne said, lips thinning. "Which reminds me: I have something for you. Freshly forged; I did not think you would want the other, considering who held it before you."

Leaving their breakfast table, Brienne went to retrieve a small bundle of linen from her bedside. Forged in gold, perhaps tapped from the same mine that had produced Brienne's crown, was the pin of the Hand. He'd seen his father wear his; had seen a multitude of others with it pinned to their breast. The last man who'd worn one had been slain at Jaime's own hand. But this was _his, _and he was _hers, _and Jaime held his breath as Brienne pinned it to his scarlet jerkin. A finger traced the gold circle; the ornate decoration. Her fingertips touched leather, then pulled away as if he'd burnt her. She didn't have to do that anymore. Brienne could touch him; he could think of nothing better for her to do than just that. So Jaime took her hand, dropped his lips to her knuckles, and held it against the gleaming pin upon his chest.

It was official. He was now Hand to the Queen.

\--

"It's official, Jaime. You are pardoned by royal decree."

Jaime threw his head back and laughed, yet still took the slip of offered parchment. Well, _thank you, _Your Grace. I certainly appreciate your diligence in this matter. Up until now, I was both Hand to the Queen _and _a traitor."

"Piss off," Brienne said, rubbing her right wrist. Jaime's was only one of a number of pardons and dismissals she had signed that morning. "I understand the ridiculousness of it, but it had to be done. To protect you, and your new position, if nothing else. I may not yet understand the politics of this court, but I understand the strategy in not leaving a hole in your defences."

It was nothing more than a silly slip of parchment that Brienne would file with whoever was responsible for such things. _Ser Jaime Lannister has been pardoned for any actions conducted during the reign of King Aerys Targaryen II, including the act of killing King Aerys Targaryen II. _But for others, those slips of parchment were of great importance. All those who had served under Aerys, all those who had fought against Brienne, Ned, and Robert, had been pardoned for their actions. Lord Varys, Aerys' Master of Whispers, had been dismissed from the Small Council. Grand Maester Pycelle, whilst unable to be dismissed from his position, had been ordered to return to the Citadel. 

Brienne had little need for men who would have just stood there and let the city burn.

"I think that's the last of them." She hoped so, at least for her sword hand. A quill did not hold the same thrill. "And the Wardens, we've decided upon those."

"_Tradition _has decided upon those; quite mercifully, actually, as you wouldn't want people to think my father had been rewarded for his actions," Jaime said, looking at the four pieces of parchment sealed with blue wax; a raised sun and moon standing bold. They were to be sent to Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Casterly Rock respectively. "No surprises apart from the Warden of the South. Still happy with your decision?"

Brienne hesitated, teeth tugging at the flesh of her bottom lip. She nodded. "Dorne is further south than Highgarden, and a place at the table might make Doran Martell reconsider supporting any future claim to the throne by Prince Viserys." She paused; brow furrowed as she stared at the four identical pieces of parchment. "Unless—"

"—don't _do _that. Don’t doubt yourself."

"I _know_, but—"

Jaime was out of his chair in seconds; around her side of the desk in _moments. _He laid his hands upon the tense line of her shoulders; a familiar weight anchoring her to this plain. It was so easy to second-guess every decision; to worry over every outcome that might not truly reveal itself for years to come. On the field of battle, decisions were made and concluded within minutes. This was a very different kind of battle, one Brienne felt ill-equipped to fight. A quill was no sword. Her only weapon, really, was Jaime.

His fingers squeezed her shoulders, and she pressed one of her hands to his. She looked up at him, then, and felt her trepidation ease at the warmth of his smile. "You're better at this than you think you are, Brienne. Be fair, be just, and you can't go wrong. I _mean, _your predecessor was terrible. As long as you don't bankrupt the country and lead us into a war, you'll be heralded a great Queen."

She snorted. "Is that all?" She didn't even know where to _start _with the finances. Thankfully, she had an idea of someone who would. But there were so many other positions to fill. What if they…or what if…"_Jaime._"

His forearm wrapped across her sternum, holding her tight against his chest. Brienne drew in a shaky breath, and her mind finally began to calm. Jaime had that effect on her. If she was his shield from nightmares; from the looming figures of Aerys and his family, Jaime was her anchor; her calm port. When he was nothing more than her guard, Jaime had longed to reach for her. She'd longed for him, too. A friend in these turbulent times, where Brienne was as out of place here as she always had been. In some ways, she missed the days of the rebellion. Things were simpler, then.

All too soon, Jaime relinquished his hold upon her. He did not stray far, however, as he took up post on the corner of her desk. He tapped the piece of parchment listing the empty posts on the Small Council. "Trust yourself, Brienne. You've fought with people all over the Seven Kingdoms; you know in your _gut_ who would be best to serve the realm. Master of Ships, for example. Who's good with ships?"

"Ser Gerold Storm." Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Harbourmaster on Tarth; he used to spar with me when Ser Goodwin was taken ill. He's a good man."

"Then he's our Master of Ships." Jaime took the quill from her hand, dipped it in the well, and took great care in printing his name upon the parchment. "_There. _Now, you want to get rid of the Master of Whispers, and I don't blame you. So, now we need a Master of Law…who do we know that likes rules?"

Brienne volunteered the first name that popped into her head. "Robert's brother, Stannis. He spoke often of him; not particularly favourably, I grant you, but I gathered the impression that adherence to rules and laws was something he strived by."

Jaime's mouth twitched, but he printed Stannis Baratheon's name all the same. "He'll bore you during Council meetings, I'll advise you of that now."

"As my Hand, you can represent me whenever Lord Stannis has anything truly…_informative _to share with the Small Council."

Jaime lifted his gaze from the parchment; a smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, Your Grace. You are _far _too kind." She grinned. "Any suggestions for whom to leave in charge of the Kingdom coffers?"

"I do, as it happens. Mace Tyrell might not be Warden of the South, but I think Highgarden will be happy with this appointment. It's something I've been considering for some time." Brienne stared at the inkwell rather than Jaime; her cheeks warming at the affection behind her words. "In fact, other than you, it's the only position I was ever sure of."

"Is that so? _Alright._"

Jaime re-inked the quill and began printing the name of the new Master of Coin. Seeing the slow curve of his letters, Brienne quickly grabbed at his wrist. "No. _Lady Olenna_."

"Her?" Jaime dropped the quill; his green eyes flashing. "The one who calls me _boy _and refers to my sword as nothing more than a _stick_? You want to appoint Lady Olenna Tyrell as your Master of Coin? _Really?_"

"Do you doubt me, Jaime?"

"_No._" He frowned, choosing his words carefully. She admired his desire to support her, even when he clearly thought her in the wrong. "It's just an odd choice."

"As were you, but I don't regret your appointment for a second." Olenna had been kind, and honest, and Brienne _trusted _her. At least with the financial state of the realm. Not to mention, it would be good to have another woman beside her on the Small Council. "Jaime, Highgarden is the richest House in the Kingdoms save for Casterly Rock. As I have no intention of giving your father _any _power, this is a strategic move."

Jaime nodded, relenting on his poor opinion of the Tyrell matriarch. "You're right. It is. But she _will_ attempt to marry you to one of her grandsons. She has three, you know."

Brienne chuckled. Whilst Olenna seemed to carry some affection for her, no doubt the Highgarden men had better prospects than _Brienne the Beauty_. "Perhaps. Being Master of Coin will keep her busy, at any rate." 

So Jaime printed _Olenna Tyrell _upon the parchment. With her Council formed, her Wardens appointed, there left only one position to fill. The position that, not three days before, Jaime had asked for himself. He now asked for another.

"Might I suggest Ser Brynden Tully as your Lord Commander? He has no wife, no heirs. He's a skilled knight. To be frank, Brienne, he's the only one I trust to protect you, now—" Jaime trailed off; emerald eyes shifting to the parchment in front of him. "—now that I cannot."

She nodded. "I will ask him personally, Jaime. He'll be a good fit; it's a very wise suggestion."

His whole face lit up at her compliment, and Brienne reached over to take his ink-stained hand. _There. _All major appointments filled. Now they could take that walk; maybe even visit the armoury and Brienne could _finally _test the mettle of Ser Jaime Lannister. But then came a knocking at the door. It was one of Jaime's staff, Ser Martyn. He bowed low in her presence.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace. My Lord, Lord Lannister is here. He wishes to speak with you urgently. He's in the Tower of the Hand."

Of _course _he was. Brienne had only been acquainted with the Lord of Casterly Rock for a short period, but even she understood that everything Tywin Lannister did was on his own terms. _But no longer. _His son was Hand to the Queen; held more power than he would ever hold again. Brienne tried to convey that in her touch of Jaime's hand, squeezing it tightly despite their audience. She wished she could go with him; be his comfort as he had been for her today. But this meeting of father and son would have to be conducted alone.

The next time she spoke to Lady Olenna, however, Brienne would have to ask whether it was possible to send Tywin Lannister back to the Rock he crawled out from.

\--

The meeting with his father went as well as one could expect. Brienne found him much later, pink and orange splashed across the sky, winning a fight against a sparring dummy. The sword he'd bought to protect his new Queen slashed at the burlap head and shoulders; straw spilling onto the floor of the armoury. Jaime heaved, sweat soaking through the armpits of his white shirt, as he continued to fight an assailant who had neither the arms nor brain to draw its own sword. His red jerkin, the one that had made him feel like a _Lannister _again, had been discarded some time ago.

It was only when he loped the dummy's head from his shoulders that he turned to greet Brienne. She was watching him intently; a muscle twitching in her jaw. He threw his sword upon the ground and ran a hand threw his hair. "Forgive me, Your Grace, for my rudeness. It seems I am failing at everything today."

"You're not failing at _anything_, Jaime."

"Yes, I am." He reached for the waterskin tossed carelessly to one side and gulped from the rim. "If I'm not already, I soon will. Lead this country into a war; bankrupt it beyond all recognition. If I could go back to being your Queensguard – if I could _stomach _losing everything I have gained today – I would do so in a heartbeat."

"_Jaime. _Where's this coming from?" Brienne's jaw clenched. "What did your father say to you?"

His father. The great Tywin Lannister. When Jaime had arrived at the Tower of the Hand – his _home, _now; his _place _– his father was sitting where he had sat for years_. _As if Tywin, not Jaime, was Hand to the Queen. He'd endured many lectures over the years, a multitude of arguments over his capabilities, but nothing like this. _I gave up my vows as a Kingsguard. I'm now the second most powerful person in the realm. Why aren't you happy? _There had been the suggestion, nay the _command, _for him to return to Casterly Rock and focus on running one Kingdom rather than _seven_. Then the suggestion, the _audacity, _that his father should take over the role of Hand as a _guardianship; _as if Jaime had barely seen his tenth nameday. _You are not ready for this. You cannot possibly advise the Queen with any authority. _

"Maybe he's right. Maybe you'll be better—"

"—_don't._" Brienne's voice was soft, so _fucking _soft. Just like her touch, encircling his bare wrist. "Don't doubt yourself, Jaime, before you've even begun."

His words sounded so much better in the quiet of her office, when it was Brienne faltering on her path. They rang hollow, here, in the still of the armoury. "I don't want to fail you, Brienne. I don't want to let you down."

"Sometimes you will. Sometimes you will offer bad advice and I will decide not to listen. Like with Olenna. Other times, it will be me who makes the wrong choice, and it will be your _duty_ to make me listen to you above all else. No one who has ever taken the throne or worn that pin has been faultless. We need to remember that."

Jaime kicked some fallen straw across the cobblestones. "My father never did. Brienne, he ruled the Kingdoms better than Aerys ever could."

"Perhaps. But he let personal pride get in the way of his duty to this realm, and allowed a madman to butcher and _burn _people for his own amusement. Your father only joined the fight when he was sure of its outcome. If I wanted your father, Jaime, I would have him without question. But I don't. I want _you._" She paused, before asking, "Do you trust me?"

"_Yes_."

"Then trust my judgement, as you told _me_ to do. If I thought you unworthy, I would not have you."

The hand holding his wrist slid up his arm, across his shoulder, and palmed the nape of his neck. Brienne reeled him in; her other arm enclosing around his waist. Her touch soothed him; the gentleness of her fingers carding through his hair slowly ebbing away the strain from his father's visit. For the first time since perhaps he was a child, Jaime felt…_protected. _He was safe with Brienne. Safe from self-doubt and self-hatred; safe from those who would manipulate him. If he was a lesser man – if he did not enjoy the feel of _Brienne _on his lips when he said it, or his Queen in his arms morning, noon, and dusk – he would have given himself away yet again.

But he hadn't. He was still here. And he finally felt able to smile as Brienne's hands clasped his face. "Let's forget all about your father. _Lord Commander Tully _is waiting outside." Jaime's smile widened even further. "So it's just the two of us. How about we _finally _do something I've wanted to do with you since we first met?"

Jaime gaped, unsure of Brienne's intent. _Surely not._ "And what would that be?"

"_Spar, _of course." _Of course. _Maiden Queens did not do the things his mind had conjured. Maiden Queens longed to spar with their friends, and nothing more. Brienne took a few steps back and drew her blade. She tested the weight of it in her hands and _sighed. _"It's been _so_ long. Come on, Jaime, pick up your sword and fight me."

He could not, and did not care to, disobey an order from his Queen. He snatched his blade from the armoury floor and took position. It had been a while for him, too. "You may regret this, Your Grace. As a former member of the Kingsguard, I am considered one of the finest swordsmen in all of Westeros."

Brienne circled him; her sword jabbing at the air beside his shoulder. "And yet, I took Jon Darry's head clean off at the Trident."

His blade tapped the edges of the cloak billowing around her ankles. "I killed a _King, _Brienne."

Her mouth faltered, as if wanting to conjure reassurances that he had _done the right thing. _He didn't need that; he needed the playful banter of a sparring partner. Brienne, gratefully, was a quick study as to his needs. "You killed an old man whose singular weapon was his crown. Let's see how you do with a Queen, Ser Jaime."

Jaime leaned forward; the tip of his blade pushing the golden crown an inch back upon her head. "I won't hurt you, Brienne."

Her sword grazed his cheek; as soft as a woman's caress. He gasped. "Just don't hold back."

"I never do."

Brienne lunged first; Jaime barely recovering from the shock to match her sword with his. He used his strength to force her on the back foot, and they continued to parry blows across the armoury. The clang of steel on steel rang out in the airy chamber; Brienne's blue cloak swishing as she practically _danced _across the cobblestones. She was _good. _Better than anticipated; matching him for every jab and thrust. He had known Brienne to be kind, and just, and brave these past few weeks. But Jaime now knew why the men of Robert's rebellion had followed her, had fought beside her. She was born to carry a sword in her hand. As meant to wield one as wear that crown atop her head.

Distracted by her skill, Jaime did not foresee Brienne's shoulder knocking him backwards. He fell against a rack of swords; the blades spilling onto the floor. His own blade joined the melee, and suddenly the point of Brienne's sword was underneath his jaw. The steel lifted his chin; his gaze meeting hers. "I yield," he said, breathlessly.

"_Good_." Brienne's blue eyes shone; her face pink and damp with sweat. But her grin was as bright as Jaime had ever seen it. "You can challenge me again tomorrow."

"With _pleasure_."

She offered her hand, and Jaime took it readily. This was how it was going to be, now: morning embraces, afternoon walks, sparring before dusk. The politics they would muddle through; the Kingdoms run by the code they lived by. His father could lick his wounds and retreat to the Rock; uphold his Lannister legacy by himself. Jaime had the faith of the Queen, and together they would build something that would stand for a thousand years. _Their legacy. _


	7. The Opinions of Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion arrives in King's Landing; Jaime and Brienne question their tactile behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, HUGE thank you to everyone who commented on Chapter VI or left kudos; liked or reblogged on Tumblr. I am constantly overwhelmed by the interest and support in Queen Brienne. So thank you, all of you. 
> 
> A personal thank you to agirlnamedkeith/sameboots for giving this chapter a read over to make sure it made sense. I thoroughly appreciated your comments at 5am this morning! I'm also grateful to the cheerleading from my Tumblr friends as I battled editing this afternoon. You're all so sweet! Enjoy the longest chapter of Queen!Brienne yet!

"—surely you can see, Your Grace, that it is imperative that we change these laws to ensure—"

Brienne's elbow slipped from the edge of the Small Council table; so close had she been to falling asleep to the _droning _of Stannis Baratheon. Beside her, Jaime stifled a small smile. He had warned her about Stannis when she had first suggested the Lord of Storm's End as her Master of Law. He'd warned her again before they'd entered their first Small Council meeting one moon ago. As Stannis bored the assembly, Jaime's grin grew wider and wider.

He scribbled something on a piece of parchment and angled it towards Brienne. In spidery black ink were the words _I told you so. _

Brienne resisted the urge to sigh. Jaime would be insufferable for the rest of the day; chest puffed and eyes gleaming. If there _was _a rest of the day. This meeting seemed _endless_. It was only when she caught Lord Commander Tully yawn so wide she could witness his back teeth that Brienne remembered she _could _put an end to it. She was the Queen, after all. "Thank you, Lord Stannis."

"—I, _oh._" Stannis cleared his throat, staring at his fellow Council members in their various states of near-slumber. "Your Grace, I really must insist we act at once."

Brienne struggled to recall exactly what Baratheon had been discussing. Beside her, Jaime tapped the Council agenda he had so carefully printed the night before, whilst Brienne played with one of the stray cats that seemed to enjoy the Tower of the Hand. _Ah. _Changing the inheritance laws to better serve her future heirs. "I agree, Lord Stannis. But do you not agree that changing one law, when I'm sure _many _disenfranchise me and my future kin, seems a tad…_redundant_?"

Stannis' forehead puckered. "What would you have me do, Your Grace?"

"Examine all our laws. Identify which ones need changing. Then, the Council will discuss how best to enact your changes. I expect a full report, Lord Stannis, to be delivered one moon from now."

On her left, Jaime let out a groan that he quickly transformed into a cough. Brienne's boots kicked forward, aiming at the legs he so loved to stretch underneath the table. His groan was not so well hidden this time, and Jaime reached down to rub his shin as he made a note for further agendas. "Well, that concludes the scheduled discussion for today's meeting. Any other business?"

No one raised their hand. No one spoke; all eager to leave the chamber and resume their Council duties outside this room and Lord Baratheon's dry inflection. Brienne nodded at the assembly. "I shall see you all in three days' time, unless some pressing business announces itself. Good day."

Lord Commander Tully was the first to leave. He bowed deeply to his Queen, before making his return to the White Sword Tower. Ser Gerold Storm was next, giving Brienne a familiar smile. Lord Stannis left with a slight incline to his head and a stack of books cradled under his arm. Lady Olenna, as always, was the last to leave. She offered neither bow nor curtesy, just a wry smile.

Ser Jaime did not stand. Instead, he sagged in relief against the chair of the Hand. Looking to his right – to _her_ – Jaime offered a lazy grin. "You know, I think I might even be getting _good _at this."

"You are," Brienne chuckled, leaning over to plant her lips against Jaime's cheek. She whispered in his ear, "_I told you so_."

Jaime choked out a laugh; green eyes shining as she pulled away. His hand briefly brushed the spot her lips had touched, before reaching for her hand to leave a familiar kiss across the bridge of her knuckles. Brienne tried to ignore how warm her face grew every time he did so, as if he was a courting prince rather than her dearest friend. She kept her head bowed, her blush hidden, as they rose from the table. Jaime's hand sat at the small of her back as they circumnavigated the Council table and headed for the doors.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Brienne asked, pressing close into Jaime's side. "Fancy another bout? Try to even the score?"

Jaime was currently down by three points. They had yet to settle on a prize for their wager, but whatever it was Brienne would surely win it. To her disappointment, Jaime shook his head. "Regretfully, no. Tyrion's arriving a day earlier than planned, and he's asked if I'll greet him at the city gates." 

Tywin's youngest child had finally come of age, which meant he could be free to stay in King's Landing with his brother. Jaime's excitement at seeing Tyrion could be heard in every syllable, and Brienne loved how happy the impending visit had made him. She'd heard many things about the younger Lannister, and was excited for them to finally meet. Brienne was even more excited when Jaime took her hand once again and placed it to his chest. "You'll join us later, though, won't you? Tyrion can't wait to meet you; he's heard so many stories about you."

"Have you been writing home about me, Ser?"

"Only that you keep knocking me on my arse." They shared a laugh; Jaime reeling her closer. "And that you've helped heal _years'_ worth of damage with your kindness."

She drew in a ragged breath. "_Jaime._"

"Later?"

Brienne nodded. Jaime then took her hand and wound it around his shoulders, pulling her in for an embrace. It was their second, no _third, _of the day. Before breakfast; when the hours without him had only been broken by her peaceful slumber. Before the Council meeting; when Jaime's nerves had got the better of him. And now, with her hand teasing the nape of Jaime's neck; his hands pressed firmly to the dip of her waist. Forehead to forehead; green and blue eyes falling closed. All too soon it ended, and Jaime left to go greet his brother. Brienne stood, alone, with a slow warmth spreading through her extremities.

"Forgive me for eavesdropping, Your Grace; I had forgotten my notes." Olenna's voice cut through the quiet. "I was unaware that you and Ser Jaime were courting."

All warmth quickly evaporated from the room. Brienne turned to face Olenna; the old woman's lips pursed and eyes full of mirth. Brienne fumbled for the words to explain the moment of intimacy she and Jaime had just shared, before the weight of Olenna's question hit her like a blow with a broadsword. "Ser Jaime and I are _not _courting."

"Really?" Olenna made a noise of surprise. "The two of you were very…_tender._"

"Ser Jaime and I are friends. _Dear _friends."

This time, the noise Olenna made was a snort of derision, and Brienne did not care for it at all. "My dear, I've seen less contact between a whore and her patron."

If a man had spewed such filth, if he had insinuated that there were untoward pleasures between herself and Ser Jaime, Brienne would have drawn herself up to full height and struck the man where he stood. She was _Queen, _and she no longer had to be spoken to like that. But this was Olenna. She said these things not as a taunt, not as a jape. But as a _warning _that things between Ser Jaime and herself were overly familiar. Brienne had questioned it; surely Robert and Ned had never been so tactile, and they'd known each other since they were boys. But her friendship with Jaime went past pure comradery. It was _pure _and _innocent, _despite Olenna's insinuations otherwise. Brienne would not let her – would not let _Jaime's – _honour be impugned in such a fashion.

She kept her feet firmly planted upon the ground, hands resting behind her back, as she addressed Olenna's concerns. "Where were you during the war, my Lady?"

Olenna swallowed. "Highgarden."

A nod. "I thought as much. I was with the rebel soldiers. For a _year. _Fighting men you've heard your father speak fondly of; seeing the fallen bodies of those you respected. Blood and dirt and piss. That's just war for a man. For me, things were even worse. I spent every night half-awake with a hand on my sword just in case one of my fellow soldiers decided to take me without my consent. There was a wager going on – reached a considerable sum, I heard – about who would bed me before the campaign was over. I _loathed _the idea of anyone laying a hand on me. Those that did either wanted to _kill _me or _fuck _me."

Olenna did not say a word. There were no words to say to such things.

Brienne, however, continued. "The first person I touched in over a year was Jaime. He had killed Aerys, saved us all, and he had been _dismissed _as nothing more than an oathbreaker. He told me what happened, and I reached for him. I held him, and he held me back." She swallowed, momentarily transported to the stench of Aerys' corpse; the dampness of Jaime's tears upon her shoulder. "You need to understand, Olenna, there is nothing between Ser Jaime and I. We are just two soldiers who have forgotten what it means to be touched."

Olenna nodded. She closed the gap between them, and took Brienne's hand in hers. "And you need to understand, dear girl, that the war is _over._"

Brienne faltered. The war _was_ over. So why did they continue to touch like the world had yet to right itself?

\--

The Lannister brothers had finally been reunited, and everything was right with the world. Apart, however, from the wine cellars in the Red Keep. Since his arrival in King's Landing, Tyrion had done his best to sample the great many wines on offer; face ruddy and eyes alight as the pair enjoyed the warm sun and cool breeze. This was the first time Jaime had clapped eyes upon his brother since joining the Kingsguard, although they had written near-constantly since Brienne's ascension. He'd spoken candidly of his friendship with the Queen, the animosity with Father, and his dismissal of their sister. All that was left now they were together was to drink and be merry.

Tyrion was pouring them both more wine, the platter of fruit in front of them nothing more than pips and stalks, when Brienne's squire approached. "Good afternoon, my Lords. Her Grace, Queen Brienne, will join you momentarily."

The squire departed, leaving the Lannister brothers alone in a hidden alcove of the Red Keep gardens. He and Brienne ate here often, enjoying the fresh air and seclusion. Jaime had become accustomed to, at the very least, brushing his hand against hers whilst they feasted. He fiddled with the collar of his tunic now as they waited; brushing the hair from his eyes. Tyrion wore a curious expression, but kept his speculation to himself. All too soon his brother was on his feet as their Queen made her arrival.

Jaime, too, clamoured to his feet; his mouth falling slack at the vision she made. Brienne had changed since the Small Council meeting; her tunic was gold, with red embroidery along the hem. The Tarth suns gave it away, but a quick glance would have one assume she was wearing Lannister colours. He bowed his head; taking Brienne's hand as he was wont to do and letting his lips linger against her skin. When Jaime stared upward, he found a fine pink blush grazing her cheeks. Her eyes, however, were the rough waves of a summer storm.

Standing upright, Jaime followed traditional Court etiquette despite his desire to do otherwise. "Your Grace, may I present my brother, Tyrion of House Lannister."

Tyrion bowed low; his eyes shooting up Brienne's incredibly long legs and torso. "_Fuck, _you're tall."

Jaime prepared numerous apologies; his green eyes sharp as he attempted to chastise his brother with nothing more than a look. But Brienne, as if he needed more evidence, was not Aerys. She took Tyrion's outburst with good humour. She beamed, and Jaime's brother smiled, too. "You have the same powers of observation as your brother."

Tyrion looked between the pair of them. "Somehow, I don't think that's quite the compliment you make it out to be."

"I don't know what you're implying. I'm _very_ fond of your brother." The waters of her eyes had calmed, and Brienne even placed her hand upon his in gratitude as he pulled out her chair. Jaime took his; both their seats perhaps closer than necessary. But that was the way of it, with them. "So, what were we discussing?" 

Tyrion launched into the story of the time Jaime jumped off the rocks at their childhood home; Brienne oft interrupting with tales of her own days jumping into the sea. More food was requested now that the Queen had joined the Lannister brothers, and more wine_, _too. Tyrion would barely be able to walk back to his new rooms at this rate. But Jaime's concerns lay a little closer; namely to his right. Although Brienne had warmed since Tyrion's faux pas, Brienne felt more withdrawn than usual. When Tyrion asked one of the servants about the wine, Jaime took the opportunity to cup his hand over Brienne's and lean in.

"You seem troubled."

She shook out of his grip to tease a strand of hair behind her ear, but anyone could see the action was just an excuse. "I'm fine, Ser Jaime."

"_Ser._" _Tyrion's here. There's servants here. _There had to be some boundaries when they were not alone. Yet, those three letters seemed to carry so much weight. An anchor dragging them behind, to _before_. "Now I truly believe something is wrong."

"_Jaime._"

"_That's better._" He risked a glance at Tyrion, who was still engrossed in a lengthy discussion about the wine cellars. Jaime bent his head, his breath lifting the delicate strands of blonde hair curling around Brienne's ear as he whispered, "Tell me. I'll fix it. Whatever it is, I'll fix it."

"Later."

So there _was _something. Between his departure from the Small Council chambers and Brienne's arrival in their alcove, something had happened. But what? It had clearly troubled her; why had she not called for him? He was her Hand: he guided, advised the Queen. Jaime was her _friend: _he comforted, supported Brienne. These seeds of doubt sprung forth into vines that twisted Jaime's thoughts, cutting off all common sense. His mind was quick to suggest he was to be replaced; that he would be sent to Casterly Rock or the Wall or _somewhere _that did not have Brienne of Tarth. Her hand, however, salted the dirt from which these vines grew.

She held his hand, bold and in plain view; her thumb brushing the inside of his wrist. Jaime caught her eye and felt his lingering apprehensions wash away. "Whatever comes of it, _we'll _be fine."

Not _you, _not _I. We. _They were a _we, _as if Jaime had suspected anything less. They had been so since that first day in the throne room, and would continue to be so until they were running the Kingdoms upon their deathbeds.

A flurry of activity in the corner of Jaime's eye caught his attention, and Brienne's hand quickly slid from his to rest upon her knee. Servants bustled into the alcove, bringing more fruit and warm bread; delicacies from the Stormlands that the kitchens had quickly learnt were favourites of their new Queen. More wine was poured, and over the table Jaime caught his brother's gaze. His eyes were cloudy, and not just from the drink. Just how _long_ had he and Brienne sat there, holding hands, staring into each other's eyes? 

Jaime found out later after they'd cleared their plates and goblets, and Brienne was called away to discuss Jon Arryn's forthcoming visit to Dorne. Bidding her a polite and proper farewell, Jaime had barely retaken his seat before Tyrion cut to the quick. "If Father hadn't told me you'd refused to bid for her hand – what is it, twice now? – I would have assumed you and Her Grace were only moons from the Sept."

"Utterly ridiculous," Jaime declared as he leant back in his chair. "Brienne and I are simply friends. We are perhaps more _close _than typical—"

Tyrion scoffed. "_Brother, _I have just sat through a meal with you both. You are _utterly _devoted to her. Thankfully, in this matter, Her Grace seems to share your devotion." Jaime opened his mouth to argue, but Tyrion continued regardless. "I _mean, _the _handholding_! To say nothing of the lingering looks, shy glances, and your tendency to 'accidentally' brush her shoulder when you reach for the back of her chair! _Oh, _and don't think it has escaped my attention that you call the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms _Brienne._"

"That's her _name._"

"That it may be, but _Brother…_" Tyrion trailed off. "You must see how this looks. Tell me; do you at the very _least _plan to begin officially courting her soon?"

"She's my _friend._" Jaime cared for her, deeply, but he wasn't in love with her. Both of them, after all they had suffered and all that had been expected, deserved to marry someone they loved. "Tyrion, Brienne – Her _Grace _– is the truest and dearest friend I will ever possess. She was kind after years of cruelty; soft where before I would fear the sharp of a blade or the sting of fire. She asks nothing of me that will bring me dishonour, and she trusts me where so many have turned their backs."

"_Jaime_—"

He wasn't done. "—and do you know what's _really _wonderful about Brienne? These moments of physical affection that offend you so: they come without strings. She does not touch me to manipulate me, or to seek my favour. There are times when I look back upon my relationship with our sister and I am deeply troubled by how often she only came to me when it suited _her. _I am _happy, _Tyrion."

"I know." The brothers shared a smile across the table. "It's in your face; it's in every inch of you. A burden has been lifted; you seem…_free. _Our Queen's friendship and affection has given you that. But might I suggest _one _thing?"

"If you must."

"Your relationship with Cersei was never on your terms. You were born together, raised together. Told by our Father to love her; told by _her _that your affections were more so. Whether it was love – and I still doubt it to be – it was always something that was _there. _Jaime, you have never experienced the very act of _falling in love_. How can you be sure that what you feel for Brienne isn't that very thing?"

Jaime made to answer him, but found he could not.

\--

Despite Olenna's wise words, Brienne found she could not stop touching Jaime. She had strived to remain warm, yet restrained, during her meeting with the Lannister brothers. Jaime's lips against her skin had not crumbled her resolve. It was his eyes; the slight falter of his mouth that had done so. His confusion at her aloofness when only hours before she had been warm and willing in his arms had pained her. And with a brief touch of her hand, the dam broke. She gazed upon him unabashedly, relishing this new side of Jaime in the company of his brother. She leaned into his touch as he stretched his arm along her chair. She had, with great reluctance, left the table to attend to matters of state. But not before her hand had trailed along the line of his shoulders. 

_So much for my pledge. _

Even now, Brienne struggled to keep her hands to herself. She and Jaime were sparring atop a secluded plateau looking out over the ocean. It was the perfect spot: Brienne was accustomed to fighting against the sea breeze, and it would stop members of the court gawping at their Queen in a white shirt and tight breeches. It also allowed her and Jaime to adjust their moves; observe and guide the other as they worked through swordplay. She'd tug at his shoulder, kick his legs apart. He'd wrap an arm around her middle, angle her hips correctly. Ser Brynden would call out suggestions every now and then, but ultimately he would leave them unwatched, unguarded.

As Brienne had her left flank, and was quickly spilled onto the ground as Ser Jaime drew level with her tally in their game of bouts. He stood over her, sword hanging limply from his hand. Jaime shook his head. "You're not paying attention. Half a dozen times you could have won this bout, but it's like you're not even here. It's rather taken all the fun out of winning."

"_Drawing_." Jaime offered Brienne his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. "I'm sorry, Jaime. I seem to be elsewhere this evening."

"So it would seem. Would this have anything to do with what was troubling you earlier? I was promised later, Brienne. It _is _later."

Brienne nodded, unsure how to broach such a delicate subject. She didn't want to cast aspersions upon Jaime's honour by suggesting he was acting untoward, or offend him by implying he found her an object of desire. Brienne began by merely stating the facts. "Olenna saw us embrace after the Small Council meeting."

"Nosy old bat. She's Master of Coin; she should have better things to do with her time than spy on the Queen and her Hand." Jaime looked down at the hilt of his blade rather than meet her eye. "Did she imply that we were courting?"

Her eyes narrowed, unbelieving how quickly Jaime had put the pieces together. "She did."

"My brother seemed to be under the same impression."

_Oh. _Brienne found herself unsurprised. They had not exactly been discreet in their affections over dinner. Brienne's cheeks felt aflame as she thought of how often she had touched him: hands brushing as they passed platters and plates; languid smiles and long looks as Tyrion _finally _made good on his promise to tell Brienne amusing childhood stories of her dearest friend. It had just been so _easy. _How long would it be before they slipped up in front of the wrong person? How quickly would rumours fly that she and Jaime were courting or, worse, he was bedding her without the intention to wed her? _As if there was a likelihood of such a thing. _

Head bowed, Brienne offered Jaime the pledge she had made to herself earlier, and had failed to live up to so quickly. _Perhaps he will have better self-control. _"Perhaps we should restrain ourselves."

"_Restrain ourselves_?" Jaime barked out a laugh, and it pulled a hook deep inside Brienne. _He's laughing at your suggestion, not you. _"Brienne, you act like Olenna caught us in your bed. Tyrion acts like I was seconds away from ravishing you upon that table! Why can the only affections between a man and woman be that of _fucking_?"

"I don't know, Jaime." She ran a hand through windswept hair, lost without answers. She had an entire Small Council for those. For a brief moment, Brienne considered bringing up her and Jaime's friendship at the next meeting. _How appropriate is our friendship, and how can we strive to be more conducive to Westeros' expectations of nobility? _"Perhaps our affections are more _intimate _than one would expect of friends. You do kiss my hand a great deal."

"_Well, _you're always running your fingers through my hair!" he shot back. "And you hugged me first!"

"You were in _pain. _You were crying on my shoulder!"

Jaime huffed. "Yes, well now people think we are, at the very best, courting; at the very worst, _fucking. _ Your answer is to, what, stop? Seven paces from each other at all times? One of the joys of leaving the Kingsguard was being able to be affectionate with you, Brienne. No boundaries. I _like _kissing your hand."

"And I like it when you do so! It makes me feel…" Her cheeks flushed in the balmy evening air as Brienne struggled to explain how _wonderful _it felt to have someone undertake such a courtly action in her favour. She found she could not do so without proving Olenna and Tyrion's point, so she carried on regardless. "I like touching your hair. And squeezing your hand when you seem adrift."

"I feel safe when you hold me. Since the first time, and every time since. I know the war is over—"

"—but we still have battles to face." Brienne wet her top lip; realisation washing over her. "Being Queen is the hardest thing I have ever undertaken. There is now a wall between myself and all those around me: I can joke, and smile, and spar but I am still and will always be their Queen. Even my own _father _treated me differently when he was here. But you are my equal, Jaime. When you touch me, I feel like _me _again."

Jaime closed the chasm that had widened between them. He slid one hand against the length of her neck; the other ridding them of both their swords. "I am rebuilding myself. Without my father, without Cersei, without Aerys. Every day is a struggle to make my own decisions; to set my own path without these pieces of myself. But then I look at you_, _and you touch me, and I feel whole."

Brienne nodded, letting herself be eased to rest against Jaime's forehead. "So, we're not going to stop."

"We shouldn't have to." 

Swordplay long forgotten, Brienne and Jaime stood upon the plateau savouring the time in each other's arms. If Ser Brynden looked upon them, he said nothing of their embrace. Whilst they could justify their actions to themselves, the Court was another matter. A pledge was made; a second one they both could keep. Small Council chambers, public spaces, and even in front of friends and family, they would keep a respectable distance. But this plateau, her rooms, and the Tower of the Hand were _their_ domain, where the formality expected of a lord and lady of noble birth came second to their unyielding bond. They would slip, of course. They had become so comfortable in their intimacy that it would be unreasonable to believe otherwise. If challenged, they would just speak the truth.

They were friends, and nothing more.

Two friends who, with night drawing in, decided to abandon their games (and today's score, "I won't win this wager on the back of your inattention") and retreat to Brienne's chambers for supper. As they walked, Ser Brynden trailing behind, they amused themselves with the absurdness of Olenna and Tyrion's assumptions.

"I _mean, _I have offered you no flowers, no gifts. My unwavering fealty and devotion, _yes, _but nothing further. If I was to court you properly, Brienne, I would _insist _on wearing your colours so the whole Court could see that I belonged to you, and no other."

Brienne was momentarily lost in a daydream where someone wanted her enough to actively court her affections; to have it be known that he wished to win the heart of Brienne of Tarth and no other. In her daydream, the suitor wore Jaime's face. But that meant nothing; it was only Jaime's words that gave her imagined suitor life. "I fail to understand the world they see, where a man such as you – being as beautiful as you are – would ever deign to enter _my_ bed."

Jaime paused, halting their progress to grasp at her wrist. "You think I don't want to bed you?"

Her mouth fumbled, blue eyes wide as she struggled to comprehend his words. "I—"

"I mean, _I don't, _obviously. We're _friends, _nothing more_. _But that doesn't change how appealing you are to a man."

"I have eighteen years of encounters, taunts, and wagers that would say otherwise, Jaime. I am not, in any sense of the word, _appealing._"

At her words, Jaime reached out and cupped her face; thumb brushing over the line of her cheek. "There is beauty to be found in flesh, I will not deny it. But what is appealing to one man does not necessarily appeal to another. Some men opt for gold and jewels; pretty things that can sit on shelves and only be looked upon. I…I've always preferred steel. Strong; elegant in its own way. Some men would go to war over sapphires and rubies. I crave Valyrian steel above all else. Do you see?"

Heat stained her face; she burned so warm Brienne was sure Jaime could feel it through his touch. But he did not pull away. He stared, long and deeply, until they both broke away to stare at the sky. "There's a kindness to your words, Jaime, that I truly long to believe."

"Believe it, then. If you don't believe me, perhaps you will believe the man that will one day marry you." Brienne scoffed, but Jaime squeezed her hand in protest. "He's out there. A knight, perhaps; the son of a Lord. He'll make your stomach flutter, and every moment without him feels like a moment not worth having. You'll fall in love slowly, and effortlessly, until one day you look at them and realise…" He trailed off. "You're the Queen, Brienne, and a beautiful person to know. Any man would be lucky to have people assume they share your bed. The luckiest of all, of course, being the man that gets to do so for real."

Before they returned to the depths of the Red Keep, Jaime left a familiar kiss upon her hand. Butterflies beat their wings against her stomach, and Brienne almost wept. _No. Not him. He will never feel the same; please not him. _But it was already too late.

She was falling in love with Jaime Lannister. 


	8. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renly Baratheon arrives in King's Landing; Brienne and Jaime's friendship goes through some changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE INCREDIBLE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO HAS READ AND COMMENTED ON THIS STORY!! I am so far behind in replying to all my AMAZING comments but thank you so much for the incredible support. I thoroughly hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Dear thanks to remuslovetonks who read over the first draft of this story and had to suffer through all my editing anxiety. You are a star, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

_Jaime had not yet opened his eyes, but he knew something was off. There was a heavy weight upon his left shoulder; his arm pinned down. His mind urged his body to struggle, to free himself from whatever held him in its grasp. But his body did not respond, somehow knowing better. Jaime blinked awake, finding himself in his chambers as expected. The body resting against his he did not. A crown of blonde hair; a freckled shoulder. Brienne’s mouth turned against his skin. _

_Skin. So much _skin. _A thin blue sheet covered them both and barely. _

_Jaime stiffened, unsure how the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had come to find herself as bare as her nameday – in his chambers, no less. He looked down and realised he wore no shift; no breeches. Just his bare torso against the sheets with Brienne’s hand resting upon his stomach; his cock beginning to stir at the naked woman pressed to his side. As striking as she was in her everyday apparel, Brienne’s bare form was glorious. Firm muscle; freckles that acted as a map for his fingers and tongue. As the sheet slipped, and Brienne began to stir, her nipples hardened. _

_He groaned, knowing he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be thinking of Brienne in this fashion; shouldn’t be looking at her body and growing aroused. Jaime’s eyes snapped to her face, only to be met with a bottomless blue ocean and an eager grin. Her teeth toyed with the flesh of her bottom lip, and the hand that rested upon his stomach slipped lower. _

_“We shouldn’t,” he said; yet his head bent to brush his lips against Brienne’s collarbone. “You’re the Queen.” _

_“And you’re _mine_.” _

Fuck._ Jaime’s lips took hers as Brienne’s hand wrapped around his cock. He groaned into her mouth as she deepened their kiss; lightly sucking on his bottom lip. This was better than he’d ever imagined, and he _had _begun to imagine it. Tyrion’s words one week before had awakened something inside him. His words to Brienne, reassuring her over her prospects, had forced the truth to the surface. The thought of falling in love, of being loved: Jaime had considered little else for days. And now…and now…_

“Dammit, Lysa, be careful!”

A toppled chair woke Jaime from his slumber. He clawed at the empty sheets where Brienne should be, before catching sight of the two servants and the fresh basin they had brought. He sucked in breath after breath as if he was still in the throes of pleasure; his cock hard and tenting the thin material of his breeches. _Fuck. _They couldn’t see him like this.

“Get out,” he said, collapsing back against the mattress. “_Knock next time_.”

The servants scurried away. He would regret his harsh words later, but for now he had more pressing matters. Yet another dream of Brienne; her body willing and wanting beside his. _Fuck. _Fuck this, fuck Tyrion, fuck the servants who had prevented him from spending without a touch. He could take matters into his own hand, of course; soothe the ache with familiar strokes. But Jaime did not trust his mind to remain clear of images of Brienne. His Queen. His friend. His…his…

A distraction thankfully revealed itself in the tray the servants had brought. Accompanying the basin was a note. He retrieved it and, recognising Brienne’s seal, opened it in haste.

> _Jaime, forgive me, but Olenna has invited me to breakfast with her this morning. I dare not refuse her after her comments last week. I will see you later at the Small Council meeting. _
> 
> _Yours, Brienne. _

After the wave of disappointment that their standing breakfast date had been precluded by the old bat from the Reach, Jaime realised it was perhaps for the best. After all, he was hardly in a fit state to see Brienne. He looked down at his still hard cock, and then at the parchment. He’d missed the postscript.

> _P.S. Officially decreed by Queen Brienne, first of her name: Ser Jaime Lannister is owed one embrace. _

His heart soared at the postscript, and at her use of _yours. _And he was hers, wasn’t he? That’s why his pulse raced; that’s why he was overwhelmed with visions of her. Try as he could, it was becoming harder and harder to deny that he had feelings for Brienne. He had tried to argue otherwise for the past week: _you care about her, but just as a friend; you love her, but you do not wish to make love to her. _His cock, however, disagreed. The pounding of his heart did, too. What was he to do? Jaime did the only thing he could in that moment: tip the basin of cold water over himself and apologise to the servants for the puddle.

Much later, now dry and respectable, Jaime made his way to the Small Council chambers. It would be an interminable meeting: Lord Stannis planned to give a lengthy update as to his progress on Westerosi law; Ser Gerold would inform them about the recent efforts at Dragonstone. All the while, Jaime would sit beside Brienne: feel the warmth of her body; smell the vanilla oil the handmaidens rubbed into her hair. Witness those blue eyes that had been so blown with lust in his dream, and that eager smile that had called to him.

“Ser Jaime!”

It was her lips that called to him now. Brienne stood at the entrance to the council chambers; her tunic a soft blue and her blonde hair pulled back on one side in a series of braids. She wore no crown, but carried her sword and dagger. His heart thumped at the sight of her. His Queen. His friend. His…_his. _Why was he fighting this? What was to be gained by winning this battle? When surrendering could give him happiness with someone he cared for so deeply, and who cared for him in return?

Jaime bowed his head as he approached, respecting their pledge yet longing to take her hand and kiss it. To take her in his arms and kiss _her_. “My Queen.”

“My Lord. I hope you received my letter. And my…_debt_?”

Jaime grinned. “I did, Your Grace; thank you. I fully intend to collect, of course. This afternoon, perhaps?” They could take their usual walk through the gardens and Jaime could discuss matters of the heart with his dearest friend. _I’ve found myself in love with the Queen. How shall I proceed? _

“If it please you, my Lord; this afternoon shall be perfect.”

“Everything you do pleases me, Your Grace.”

Brienne beamed. “You’re too kind, Ser.”

“It’s not a kindness to speak the truth, Your Grace.” He bent his head, as if to share some desperate secret. “Your friendship has given me more happiness than I could have ever hoped for.”

For some reason, the light in Brienne’s eyes dimmed. “As does yours, Jaime.”

Before he could enquire further over the shadow that had fallen across her face, they were interrupted by Lord Stannis and his companion. They bared a passing resemblance, and Jaime assumed this to be the younger Baratheon, Lord Renly. If Robert was a drunken whoremonger, and Stannis the most boring man alive, what was the third brother? Baratheon immediately bowed as they approached, reaching out to take Brienne’s hand. He pressed his lips to her knuckles; closing his eyes as if to savour the moment. A traditional show of fealty, yet Jaime’s fingers flexed; as if longing to reach for his blade.

“Queen Brienne. It has been far too long since we last cast our eyes upon each other.”

_What? _Jaime turned to Brienne for answers, only to find her the colour of her house sigil; her eyes now shining, her smile warm, as she looked upon Baratheon. “Lord Renly. Welcome to King’s Landing. I–I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”

“With you here, how could it not be?”

Jaime’s stomach clenched. Who in all seven hells _was _this, and why did Brienne look at him like he hung the sun and stars?

\--

Renly Baratheon was the only man in all Seven Kingdoms that Brienne carried romantic notions for. She came to that realisation during the Small Council meeting, just after she had renewed her acquaintance with the younger Baratheon. He was still as handsome, as kind, as soft-spoken as she recalled. He still made her stomach flutter and her face flush pink, as infatuations were wont to do. It seemed silly, really, to think back to one week before and the idea that it was _Jaime _who held her heart. Her best friend. Her closest confidante. A man who would never, _ever _return her feelings.

So, it was good that Renly was visiting King’s Landing. Brienne could be reminded of the truth of things, and dismiss her brief attraction to Jaime as nothing more than a moment of madness.

There was no need, therefore, to feel anxious at the prospect of Jaime visiting her office. No need for her to brush out the tangles in her hair or fiddle with a button on her new tunic. Brienne didn’t feel her body tingle, and ache, with anticipation for Jaime’s familiar three knocks. Her breathy _enter _was merely dehydration; her vocal cords requiring lubrication. Jaime’s wide grin as he entered her office, a glint in his eye, did _not _flood her body with heat.

He held up her note from earlier that day between two fingers; his tongue wetting his top lip. “Your Grace, I have come to collect.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I would expect nothing less, Ser. You are a Lannister, after all.”

“I am. You know, with a debt such as this, you would…” He sucked in a breath; that grin now even wider. “You would make quite the Lannister yourself.”

“I don’t know about that.” Brienne buried all thoughts of being a Lannister, of being Jaime’s _wife, _and rose to meet him in the middle of her office. “I’m not sure if I have your family’s good looks.” 

“You think I’m good looking?”

_You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. _“Do you wish to collect, Ser, or talk about your pretty face?”

Jaime took a step forward. “Can’t we do both?”

He smiled, and the heat from the summer’s day made Brienne flush. The exertion of the walk between her desk and Jaime was making her pulse race, too. His eyes – sharper than Renly’s, more like emeralds than kelp – took her in with great detail. He watched every movement; his throat undulating as she drew closer. Her hand brushed the shoulder of his tunic; blue like hers. His arm slid around her waist, holding her firm. All too soon they were pressed together, and every intimate thought she’d had of Jaime could no longer be denied. 

He was so warm; his arms almost possessive around her waist. One of her hands followed a familiar path through dark-blonde hair; nails running along his scalp. The soft, keening noise could not have possibly come from Jaime. Nor what felt like his lips brush the length of her neck as his head found purchase against her shoulder. She shivered. This felt good; _far _too good. Here was Jaime, claiming their familiar and _friendly _intimacy, and she was turning it into something tawdry.

_Oh, _but Brienne didn’t want to let go. She allowed Jaime to pull away first; the green of his pupils darker than she’d ever seen them. “You should breakfast with Olenna more often,” he said.

“Perhaps I will. Or Lord Renly, now that he is visiting the capital.”

It had felt necessary, for her own sake, to remind herself of her feelings for Renly. Why Jaime stiffened, and fled to the decanter of wine on a table nearby, she did not know. “Yes, Lord Renly is to stay with us for a few weeks. You’re well-acquainted with Stannis’ brother?”

“A little. He visited Tarth when I was twelve; my father was hosting a ball, and he came.” Brienne considered offering more of the story: the games, the laughter; all at her expense. But she could not bear to see the pity in Jaime’s eyes, so she left out the real reason why she had fallen for Renly so hard. “We danced several times together; he was very kind and sweet.”

Jaime drained his goblet and poured himself a second. “You, uh, you danced together?”

“I did.” Brienne smiled as she relived some of her most treasured memories. “Lord Renly is a wonderful dancer.”

“How wonderful for him. Perhaps we should host a ball whilst he’s here; the first of your reign.”

“Perhaps.” Brienne had no idea where this notion was coming from; neither she nor Jaime had ever expressed an interest in more courtly pursuits. “I’d rather we hosted a tourney, though.”

“You–you would?” He said it like she’d asked another question.

Brienne nodded, and took the few paces to join Jaime. His behaviour was beyond strange; perhaps he had a fever, perhaps that was why he’d been so warm in her arms. “Do you forget who you talk to, Ser? The Warrior Queen; the woman who remains the victor in our running wager?”

“I fear I must have.”

She shook her head fondly. “I would rather spar once with you on the tourney field than dance a _thousand _dances.” _I’d rather be with you than Renly. My feelings for him are nothing compared to how I feel for you. _Fuck. “Of course, we’ll have to host a ball at some point. It’s expected of the Queen.”

“It is.” Jaime put down his goblet and reached for her hand. Her knuckles grazed the material just above his heart. “If I might be so bold as to claim the first two dances?”

“We–we haven’t even organised anything yet!” The thought of being in Jaime’s arms was intoxicating; the most handsome man in all Seven Kingdoms dancing with _her _made Brienne dizzy. Jaime then placed his mouth upon her hand and the world spun. He was acting so strangely but Brienne would not reject such affection. “We–we should have a tourney first. You can have the first two bouts with me, Ser.”

“I would gladly be knocked on my arse in front of the entire court if it pleases you.” His lips lingered on her skin once more; a single kiss upon each knuckle. “What else would please you, Brienne?”

_Oh, Jaime, do not ask me that. For I will answer, and you will hate me. _

Thankfully, before Brienne could reveal her burgeoning feelings for her best friend, her squire interrupted with a message. Brienne broke a seal as familiar as her own: her father, before her ascension, had been a loyal bannermen of House Baratheon for years. And now the youngest of their house wrote to her; his words personal, perhaps even a prelude to romance.

> _My Queen,_
> 
> _It was a joy to see you again this morn, and I certainly cannot wait another six years to do so again. May I have the honour of your company this afternoon as I tour the Red Keep? Your delightful wit and strength of presence are the balm to my brother’s dry inflection. _
> 
> _Your most dedicated servant, _
> 
> _Renly Baratheon_

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Brienne read the message again before scribbling her response. She signed it, sealed it, and handed it to her squire to deliver. This was beyond necessary, and she hoped one day Jaime would understand. “Forgive me, Jaime, but Lord Renly has asked for my presence this afternoon and I have agreed to join him.”

“Oh.” Like breakfast, they had a standing invitation to walk together in the gardens. Like breakfast, she would once again have to cancel. “You have nothing to apologise for, Brienne. I need to call upon Ser Gerold, anyway. If Ser Brynden is not with you, I might challenge him to a bout as well. Get some practice; see if I can’t finally even our score.”

“Oh.” Brienne did not know what she had expected. Anger at her dismissal? _Jealousy _that she was spending time with another man? Clearly, Jaime didn’t think of her like that. It was to be expected, and it was _fine. _“Good. Later, then?”

“Until later_._” Jaime closed the gap between them, and Brienne expected him to take her hand before his departure. She did not expect his lips to press against the fine blush of her cheeks; his own slightly pink as he pulled away. “Good day, Brienne.”

He had no idea what he did to her. And, as long as she pursued her adolescent infatuation with Renly, Jaime never would.

\-- 

Jaime was too late. He’d lost her.

It was clear to him, now, that Brienne held genuine affection – perhaps even love – for the younger Baratheon. The way she’d flushed upon meeting him; the slight stammer of her speech. That she would cast Jaime so easily aside in his favour. All were signposts to the true nature of her heart. And it _killed _him. He had adopted a cool demeanour after his dismissal, not wanting to unleash the anger roaring inside him at Brienne. It wasn’t her fault she loved another; it wasn’t her fault all she felt for him was friendship.

All that was left now was to accept it, and hope he was lucky enough to find someone who could love him back.

Everyone had clearly been wrong in believing Brienne held feelings for him. His father had been the first; then Tyrion. Olenna, of course. Even _Jaime _had thought over the past week that there might be _something _there. But it was not to be. He would be satisfied with their friendship, as incredible and intimate as it was. The wound over his heart would heal. Until then, it would bleed. Like now: Jaime had gone to the gardens for air, and there the pair were. Brienne’s arm lightly upon Renly’s; both of them appreciating the topiary of the Red Keep gardens.

He made to disappear; not wanting to witness this a moment longer. But he was not quick enough. “Ser Jaime!”

_Fuck. _He gave a short nod of acknowledgement to Baratheon, and then a deep bow of his head to Brienne. “Your Grace. Lord Renly.”

“Is there some emergency you require me for?” Brienne asked; a thin smile pinned to her mouth.

An emergency? Truly, there was nothing. No assassination attempts, no riots, no in-fighting with the Lords. Brienne was free to walk with Renly all she liked. Was this a test; a polite way of asking why he was in the gardens instead of his fictional meeting with Ser Gerold? Behind her stood his other excuse, Ser Brynden. He stared straight at Jaime and mouthed the words _help her. _

_Oh. _“Yes, Your Grace. Forgive me, Lord Renly, but I have to steal the Queen from you. There is a pressing matter of state that cannot be ignored.”

Brienne turned sharply to Baratheon. “We shall have to continue this another time, my Lord.”

She did not stay to offer her hand, or accept a trinket or flower as if Baratheon was courting her. Instead, Brienne set a brisk pace along an unused path that would lead them further into the gardens rather than towards the Keep. Ser Brynden and the other two Queensguard followed suit; Jaime matching her step for step. When they were far enough away, Brienne reached over and threw her arms around his neck. Their pledge forgotten; Jaime held her back as tightly as he wished. Not a breath of air could slip between them.

When they pulled away, Brienne’s lips made contact to his cheek. “You are my saviour, Jaime. I don’t know _what _I would have done if you hadn’t appeared.”

Ser Brynden coughed. “Fallen on your sword, most likely.”

Brienne fixed her Lord Commander with a glare just as one of her Queensguard yawned behind an open hand. Jaime grinned. “Don’t tell me Lord Renly is as boring as his brother?”

“He’s not.” _Damn. _But Jaime’s spirits did lift as Brienne linked their arms together, much closer than she had held Renly, and together they walked. “Renly is sweet, and very charming. But we have little in common. I don’t care much for fashion or music. I doubt he’s even swung a sword.”

“It must have been dreadful.”

She pinched his arm in jest. “It was! I’ve grown so used to discussing swordplay and the old stories, I’ve rather forgotten what it’s like to talk to people who aren’t knights_._” Brienne’s shoulder bumped his. “I am deeply sorry, Jaime, for cancelling in his favour. I truly wish I hadn’t.”

“So why did you?” he asked; his frustration betraying him.

Brienne’s hand tightened around his arm; her gaze focused on the path ahead rather than him. “I wanted to prove something to myself. I wanted to feel more for Renly than I did, so I didn’t feel more for someone…” She bowed her head. “So I didn’t feel more for someone else.”

_Someone else. _Could it be that his father and brother were right? That _Olenna _had seen something that neither of them had? “Anyone I know?”

Brienne nodded. “Yes. But I need not mention him; he doesn’t feel the same.”

“I see.” Jaime paused, weighing up his options before plunging ahead. “Then I fear I must apologise as well, Brienne.”

“For what?”

He stopped them in a secluded corner; the pungent smell of roses overpowering. Ser Brynden and the guards had not followed them. They were alone. With no eyes, no ears, Jaime could tell Brienne exactly how he felt, as he had planned to do earlier that day. 

“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier. I was…not myself. I was _jealous_, Brienne. Of Renly.”

She laughed. “Jaime, you are my dearest friend and I care for you so deeply. You have nothing to fear; your position in my heart is secure. I’m sorry I walked with him—”

“—I wasn’t jealous of that. Well, _I_ _was_, but not because he occupied your time. Brienne, I was jealous of the way you looked at him. Because I want you to look at me like that.”

Her mouth formed an ‘o’; her chin quivering as she considered his words; his confession of affection. After a moment that felt like the Long Night, Brienne smiled. _Beamed; _the only ray of sunshine on a cloud-riddled afternoon. “_Jaime_. Jaime, I _do _look at you like that.”

He took her hand. The hand of the woman he had fallen in love with. Lips brushed against her knuckles; mouth moving across her skin until it lingered on the inside of her wrist. Her pulse quickened under his lips, and Jaime held her palm against his cheek. Brienne caressed his face with the tenderest of touches; her other hand resting upon his chest. She stared at him with utter devotion; like no one ever had before. He could never have imagined, months ago when he slew the King, that he would be here. Alive, happy, _in love. _

“Dine with me tonight. We’ll eat, and we’ll talk about all of _this _without prying ears or eyes.”

He didn’t want to be interrupted during something so important, or be rushed into examining the strength of his feelings for Brienne. Jaime would only ever experience falling in love once, and he wanted to savour each moment. He wanted to experience everything the songs said that love was. He wanted to do right by Brienne, too, and give her the courtly love she deserved. Wear her colours, gift her flowers. Make her feel wanted. _Desired. _

“Oh, Jaime, I’d love that.” Her face said otherwise. “But don’t you remember? Stannis has invited us all to dine with him and Renly.”

“Wasn’t paying attention. Too busy looking at you.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Tomorrow? Join me for breakfast and we’ll talk then. We have a lot to discuss.”

“We do. But all good things, Brienne.” He left a kiss to her wrist once more; Brienne trembling against him. Or he trembling against her. It was hard to say. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Ser Jaime Lannister would officially begin courting Queen Brienne of Tarth.


	9. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne face a long night before they can discuss the new changes to their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not Saturday, but I just couldn't wait to share the new chapter! I hope you enjoy it. Word of note, there is some physical violence in this chapter, but it is nothing worse than canon.
> 
> A huge thank you to agirlnamedkeith and remuslovestonks for offering their support and love for chapter 9. 
> 
> Enjoy! :D

Tomorrow, Queen Brienne, first of her name, would tell Ser Jaime Lannister how she felt.

Until then, she had to suffer through an interminable dinner with Lord Stannis, his brother, and her fellow members of the Small Council. The wine was free-flowing, thankfully, as her Master of Law gave a detailed account of the year-long siege at Storm’s End. Little mention was made of Olenna’s son who had led the siege; instead, Stannis talked of their depleted rations, their attempts to boost morale, and the mould growing in parts of the castle due to the damp often found in the Stormlands. Ser Gerold’s elbow was stained with gravy after he had fallen asleep during the main course. Ser Brynden, having suffered through both Baratheon brothers that day, seemed on the verge of renouncing his post and taking the Black.

Brienne would rather be in her chambers, sleeping the hours away until she could be with Jaime.

Soon after dessert was served, the pie nothing more than crumbs and a silver spoon, Brienne declared her gratitude and her intentions to retire. Jaime followed suit; Ser Brynden having an out as Lord Commander of her Queensguard. The three of them fled into the empty hall and shared a silent smile of shared relief. Ser Olyvar and Ser Harry, standing tall in their gold and white, came to attention. They would be Brienne’s guards until tomorrow morning. _Tomorrow. With Jaime. _

Jaime hovered beside her, now; the Tower of the Hand in the opposite direction to her chambers. Ser Brynden took pity on them and turned to the two Queensguard. “Go on ahead and make sure the Queen’s chambers are secure.” They went off without a word. Ser Brynden then leant in, as if he was sharing some grave secret. “I’m technically off duty, Your Grace. Would you be comfortable with Ser Jaime escorting you?”

Oh yes. Yes, she _would_. “Thank you, Ser Brynden. I fully trust Ser Jaime to keep me safe.”

Jaime beamed. “She’ll be returned to her chambers with not a hair out of place or a button missing.”

“She better not, lad.”

Ser Brynden offered them a wry smile, and made a great show of turning his back and heading for the White Sword Tower. With the corridors of the Red Keep empty this late at night, Brienne had no qualms about walking hand-in-hand with Jaime. They would hear someone approaching long before they saw them, and the Court would eventually have to get used to the affection between the Queen and her Hand. After all, Brienne hoped that their discussion _tomorrow _meant that Jaime intended to court her. 

After a few paces, Jaime lifted their clasped hands to his lips. “You look beautiful tonight, Brienne.”

She flushed. “Thank you, Jaime.”

She had opted to wear a dress for supper with the Baratheons; soft grey material with blue embroidery. Her hair was loose; a sun pendant made out of the finest gold around her neck. Jaime had barely eaten anything all evening; his fork hovering in mid-air whilst his gaze was fixed upon her. She hadn’t touched much of her food, either. Jaime’s crimson doublet made him look very dashing. Hair soft and golden; a hint of stubble on the sharp jut of his cheekbones. Sitting beside Renly Baratheon, there was really no contest.

“Would you be offended if I said you looked beautiful, too?”

“Only if you didn’t mean it.”

“Well, I do.” Jaime’s face split into a wide smile, and Brienne squeezed his hand. She relished being the cause of such a smile. “You look like a golden prince from a story who slew a bear or a dragon to rescue his princess.”

“How about slaying a king just before he meets his Queen?” He paused their procession, taking her other hand. “Will that make a good story, do you think?”

Brienne nodded ardently. “The best kind.”

Jaime stared at her like no one else ever had; as if _she_ was one of the beautiful princesses from childhood stories and tavern songs that met her prince and lived happily in the age of heroes. If they had not been dear friends before the advent of their feelings, Brienne would have second-guessed every look; every kind word. She would have automatically thought the worst of Jaime, and would have required him to prove that his heart was as beautiful as his face. But he would never hurt her. Only love her.

“We should go to bed,” Jaime whispered; Brienne’s breath catching at the softness of his declaration. “The sooner we sleep, the sooner we can talk. Although, I should forewarn you, my lady, that I have intentions for us.”

“Oh?” Brienne pressed forward, closing the distance between them. “And what intentions are these, Ser?”

Jaime made to answer. He made to hold her, too: one hand dropping hers to press against the jut of her hip. But footsteps echoed down the hall they had just traversed, and it would not be long before they were found. So, with a single kiss to the inside of her wrist, the pair hurried out of sight. It would be best to wait until tomorrow, anyway: neither had any meetings arranged; they could sit and talk for hours if necessary. They just had to make it through the few hours between now and the rising of the sun.

Ser Olyvar and Ser Harry were already waiting outside her chambers when Brienne and Jaime arrived. Both held their hands behind their back lest they were tempted to touch. Jaime gave a low, respectful bow as he said his farewells. “Goodnight, Your Grace. May you sleep well.”

“And you, Ser Jaime.”

Brienne doubted either of them would get much sleep that night. But she retreated to her chambers all the same; washed and changed into her shift. She blew out the candles and crawled into bed; head resting upon her arm as she stared at the canopy above. Brienne had never been courted before. No one had ever had _intentions _before. When they had laughed at Olenna and Tyrion’s – quite accurate, as it turns out – conjecture on their relationship, Jaime had mentioned what he would do if he was to actually court her. The prospect of that future made her stomach flutter.

She drifted off into a restless sleep, stirring often as if her mind wished to check whether the sun had yet risen. The final time she awoke, it was to a hand covering her mouth, and the sensation of cold steel pressed to the juncture of her throat.

Brienne did not scream. She did not pry away the grimy fingers clamped across her mouth; nor grapple for the dagger digging into her flesh. The figure hovering above had not pinned down her arms, and that was his mistake. The heel of her hand smacked into his rib cage, and he faltered long enough for Brienne to headbutt him. The dagger was knocked out of his hand, and Brienne scrambled across the sheets to grab it. The steel slashed at his throat; spilling his blood across her bedsheets before he could react.

A second shadow moved in the corner. Another blade came arching down, catching Brienne’s forearm as she defended herself. This time she cried out, hoping to summon Olyvar and Harry from the other side of the door. It was not in her nature to wait to be rescued, however. Brienne aimed her knee into the groin of the assassin; her elbow hitting his side and driving him into the corpse of his companion. Brienne stumbled forward and grabbed a silver tray from a nearby table. She swung it with all the force she could muster and knocked him to the cold stone floor.

Two arms came out of nowhere and snaked around her waist. “Don’t struggle, Your Grace; it’ll all be over soon.”

She struggled. She screamed. The second assassin struck her face whilst the third tried to hold her still. Brienne kicked the second one into a table; the wood splintering as he fell. The back of her head connected with the third: enough to disorientate him; enough for Brienne to swing her arm and hit bone. Perhaps they had expected someone smaller, lighter, with less skill. They would not get a chance to learn from their mistakes. Brienne stole the spare blade from the third assassin’s belt and turned it upon him. The sword cut across his chest; the next blow across the face. Two hands then plunged the sword into his heart.

Brienne turned to face the second, and hopefully last, assassin. But he was already climbing through the open window. “FUCK!”

Pain exploded through her temples. The wound on her arm was bleeding; the left side of her jaw swollen and sore. Her shift was now red with the blood of two men. Yet _still _Ser Olyvar and Ser Harry had not come. Brienne yanked open the door to her chambers, ready to send these two to the Wall. Clearly, they were not _fit _to defend their Queen. She found their bodies instead.

Brienne was still standing in the doorway of her chambers when a servant turned the corner and saw the bodies. After letting out an ungodly scream, the woman realised the state of her Queen. “Your Grace, Your Grace! Are you alright?”

“Summon Ser Brynden; two of his men are dead. Summon Ser Jaime; someone has tried to murder the Queen.”

\--

“My Lord, it’s the Queen!”

Jaime did not hear another word. Such words would not be good, whatever they were. Good news did not arrive at this hour, heralded by a pounding at the door. So, Jaime did not wait for such words, or a coat, or even a pair of shoes. He simply pushed past the messenger and raced through the corridors of the Red Keep in his bare feet, sleeping breeches, and a muslin shirt barely tied. His heart thumped loudly in his ears; his mind repeating the mantra of _she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine. _Brienne was a capable warrior; had slain one of Jaime’s former brothers at the Trident, as well as succeeding in a number of other victories.

Surely the Gods would not be as cruel to take her just as they had expressed their feelings.

The Queen’s chambers quickly came into view. Two servants stood nearby: one with an arm draped around the other; both sobbing. Four bodies lay outstretched in the corridor. Two men Jaime did not recognise. The others, Ser Olyvar and Ser Harry. _Fuck. _

“Ser Jaime.” Ser Brynden, his face pale with dark circles underneath his eyes, approached. Jaime looked away from the corpses. “There’s a third attacker; haven’t found him yet. We’re searching room by room but he might have fled into the city already.”

He nodded. At least, Jaime felt his head moving. Perhaps it was the world, still unsure of the fate of his beloved. “And the Queen?”

Ser Brynden kicked one of the dead assassins. “Her work. Killed them with their own blades. She’s in there, now, with the Maester.”

“She’s–she’s hurt?” Jaime’s world continued to spin; the little he’d eaten at dinner threatening to be expelled from his stomach.

“Scratches, bruises. Nothing she hasn’t recovered from before.” _Oh. Oh, thank the Gods. _Ser Brynden clapped his hand upon Jaime’s shoulder. “Be with her. When we find the third, I’ll let you both know.”

“Thank you, Ser Brynden.” Jaime took an unsteady step forward. A thought struck him; the Warrior – the Hand – taking over now he knew Brienne was safe. “Take any of my household guards for your search; leave two on my brother’s door and the rest for the castle. I want this man found by daybreak.”

“You and me both.”

They exchanged a single nod between brothers. Then, Ser Brynden continued his search and Jaime continued to the Queen. The stone floor felt cold underfoot; now he knew Brienne was alive, he wished he’d had the presence of mind to grab some boots. A coat. A blanket to wrap around both their shoulders whilst they sipped a warming draft and waited for the third attacker to be found. He passed the Maester in the doorway. Jaime then peered into chambers as familiar as his own. Curtains slashed; furniture destroyed. Blood all over the floor and across her bed.

In the centre of it all was _her. _She sat, huddled in a chair; her shift and face still bloody. He called to her, as soft as he could, “Brienne.”

She looked up. Her jaw was an array of purples and blues. Her arm was wrapped in linens, and there was a welt on her temple, too. Jaime approached as he would a wounded animal; not wanting to startle Brienne after the trauma she had endured. His hand found hers; she clutched at him. His lips found her forehead; her sigh spoke of relief at his touch.

“You’re not wearing any shoes, Jaime.”

He managed a laugh as his other hand wiped the dried tears from her face. “I thought you hurt or dead. I should have known you wouldn’t go down without a fight. Three of them, one of you. Just about even, I’d say.”

Her lips pulled up in a faint smile that faded quickly. “I was asleep, and then one of them had their hand on my face…” Brienne swallowed. “There’s blood everywhere. On the bed. On–on me…”

Jaime kissed her forehead again, savouring the warm skin beneath his lips. Brienne seemed to calm at his touch, and he ran his fingers gently through her hair. It always calmed him; hopefully, it would have a similar effect on her. “I’ll call for a bath. I’ll step outside and you—”

“—_no. _No bath. I just need a basin with some clean water and some new clothes. And you.” Her eyes met his. “I need you, Jaime.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaime called for the two servants still sobbing in the corridor and gave them the task of bringing fresh water, towels, and some clean clothes for the Queen. He gave them permission to pilfer some whiskey to calm their nerves, and to bring a glass for the Queen and her Hand. When they returned, Jaime stood in the doorway whilst Brienne washed her face and changed out of her bloodied shift. It would be burnt rather than washed. The same for the Queen’s sheets; her mattress, too. Maybe they should find her a whole new room. Jaime was sure there was space in the Tower of the Hand.

Just as Brienne joined him in the doorway, Ser Brynden returned. “We’ve found him, Brienne.” Not _Your Grace; _not tonight. “Some cunt from House Varner in the Reach. Apparently, these two are his brothers.”

Jaime let out a low growl. “Aerys is dead; what remains of his family are on the run. And, yet, they still wish to topple the throne?”

“Not just that. The bastard was spitting some bull shite about not caring to have a _Queen _on the throne.”

“Then let’s show him what a _Queen_ can do,” Brienne said; her gaze refusing to shift from the four men lying dead on the floor. “Take him to the throne room; we’ll meet you there.”

And so, they did. The Queen, her Hand, the Lord Commander, and the members of her Small Council gathered in the throne room. Most were in various stages of undress or in the midst of slumber. Stannis was tired and unshaven. Gerold the same, but at least he’d had the self-possession to grab his sword. Lady Olenna was the most put together, although her face was devoid of all colour. One of her son’s bannermen knelt in front of the Iron Throne; his brothers lying dead. She made no comment as Jaime stood on the Queen’s right; now wearing a jerkin, boots, and his blade.

Brienne wore her crown, and took her place atop the Iron Throne. Varner spat at her feet; his dribble of saliva a paltry comparison to the blood of his former King that had stained this very floor. “I will kneel to _no _woman.”

“This _woman _killed two of your brothers. If you hadn’t fled like a _fucking _coward, I would have killed you, too.” Brienne sat, back straight, and assessed the man before her. Jaime was tempted to strike him; to replicate every mark given to Brienne upon this man’s face. But he was the Queen’s Hand, not the Queen’s justice. So, he stood, and waited for her sentence. “You are charged with murdering two of my Queensguard, and attempting to take the life of your Queen. What say you?”

“Guilty. _Guilty._ Get one of your men to _do _it already!”

“A dear friend of mine once told me, _the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword._” Her chin lifted, and Brienne turned to him. “Ser Jaime, your sword.”

He slid the blade from its scabbard and handed it to his Queen. Varner would be the first to be executed in her reign; not even those who had served Aerys to the bitter end had been granted such a fate. Unwittingly, Jaime recalled the others who had been executed in this room. Their screams, their _smell _as Aerys burned them alive. Varner’s death would be quick compared to the likes of them. Brienne would show _restraint _in her execution rather than _pleasure. _She would be better than Aerys. Always better.

Jaime retook his spot by the Iron Throne as Brienne advanced on Varner. His blade pressed to the underside of the man’s jaw; Brienne lifting his chin so he could stare into the eyes of his Queen.

“The brothers of the Queensguard are part of a sacred order dedicated to something _other _than themselves. Ser Olyvar and Ser Harry were good men, and they died in service to their Queen. You will die at the Wall, dedicated to something _other _than yourself. Your House will be stripped of its status, it’s fortune, it’s ancestral home. You will be _nothing _but a show of my _mercy._” The sword dropped to her side. “Take him away.”

Brienne turned her back on Varner. Step by step she climbed to her throne, pausing just long enough to return Jaime’s sword. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Justice had been done. The other members of the Small Council now drifted away; mention made of a meeting in daylight hours to discuss the fate of House Varner and any remaining Targaryen loyalists in the Reach, not to mention two new appointments to the Queensguard. Jaime would consider all these matters in the daylight. For now, however, there was moonlight, and the woman he loved sat upon the throne. Jaime went to her. He meant to stand, to offer his hand, to tell her that he respected her decision; _welcomed _it, even.

Instead, he fell to his knees like he had that first day when he’d pledged his fealty. Now, Jaime pledged something entirely different. Her hands sifted through his hair and cupped his face. Jaime stared up at Brienne. His Queen. “I love you.”

He could not verbalise what it meant to see _mercy _in this room. The King had been knighted; most of the lords and princes, too. But they were not worthy of those vows; they were not worthy of their positions. Brienne was a truer knight than most would ever be. He could not put into words the pain that had ripped through him at the thought of her injured or dead; or the blessed relief to know that she was alive, and _fine_. All he knew was how he’d felt that first day, and how he felt now, and he knew it to be unquestionably love.

“I love you, Jaime.”

And she knew it, too.

\--

Brienne knew there was something different when she awoke. The mattress underneath was hard where hers was softer; the sheets crimson where hers were of the deepest blue. The arm slung possessively around her waist was her third clue that something was unusual. The night before flooded back: the men, the judgement; the need to sleep and the offer from her beloved Jaime. Brienne shifted in his bed, and Jaime moved with her. His face pressed into the crook of her neck; his stubble rubbing against her skin. His lips brushed the muslin of her shirt as he settled himself further against her back.

“Good morning,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

She sunk into him; a new version of their embrace. “Good morning.”

“Aye, good morning.”

Brienne’s eyes snapped open and sought Ser Brynden Tully, currently sitting upon a chair by the front door; one hand upon his sword and the other clutching family correspondence. Brienne would have to send out two letters herself today, to Olyvar and Harry’s families. As much as she would love to lie in bed with Jaime all day, the world would not wait. Gently squeezing his hand, Brienne extricated herself from his embrace. Jaime lay flat against the mattress as Brienne crossed the room to speak with her Lord Commander.

“There’s fresh water with lemon,” Ser Brynden said, folding his correspondence and slipping it into his jacket. “I told the servants to bring food when you awoke. No one was allowed in; security measures, I said. As far as anyone knows, Ser Jaime slept in the White Sword Tower.”

“Thank you, Ser Brynden.” Allowing a young man into the bed of an unmarried woman was suspect; when said woman was the Queen, it was practically treason. Even if they’d slept in their clothes, and done nothing _but _sleep. “Your discretion is as appreciated as your friendship.”

“You’re welcome. He’s a good lad.” They both looked back towards the bed, at Jaime. “He’ll make a good husband.”

Brienne felt her cheeks warm in the stuffy bedchambers. “You do not need to escort me to the sept just yet, Ser Brynden. We haven’t—” _Tomorrow. _They were going to talk about _them _tomorrow. Which was now today, judging from the rays of morning sun streaming through Jaime’s window. “Could we have some privacy now that we’re both awake?”

“I ‘spose.” Ser Brynden looked past Brienne once more. “I trust you will be respectful, Ser.”

Jaime made a face. “She was attacked by villains last night; this is _hardly _the time to ravish the Queen.”

Ser Brynden made a noise; whether in approval or not, Brienne was unable to distinguish. But he took his leave all the same. Suddenly they were alone. In Jaime’s chambers. Her dearest friend, _her love, _propped himself up upon the mattress. Those familiar green eyes were tired; his hair messy and shirt half-tied. _Beautiful, _even now. Brienne imagined she looked a fright: her jaw stiff and bruised, her arm still wrapped in linen and her head sore. Tomorrow – now today – was perhaps not the right time for this discussion. They needed a better day; a lighter day. When she could be somewhat closer to the beauty Jaime so deserved.

Brienne busied herself with the jug of water instead. She poured a cup for herself, and then for Jaime. She did not return to the bed he lounged upon. Instead, she kept her distance and leant against one of the bedposts. She took a sip of water. “Did we decide what time the Council was to reconvene?”

“No, but we _did _decide on a time to talk about _us._ If you still want to, of course.”

“I—” Brienne pressed the rim of her cup against her lips. “This wasn’t how I imagined it.”

Jaime nodded. “Me either.”

Rubbing his face clear of sleep, Jaime left his bed behind and joined her by the posts. His fingers brushed hers as he took the proffered cup, before taking her empty hand in his. “I was going to wake early and go into the city. The market stalls spring up as soon as the sun rises, and I wanted to buy you some fresh flowers. _Sunflowers, _or something blue…I’m not sure; I know so little of plants. I thought about waking Olenna’s tailor and having him make me something in your colours. I wanted to come to your chambers this morning and make it _damn _clear that I intend to be yours until my last breath.”

Brienne drew in a deep breath of her own; Jaime’s words catching her completely off-guard. No one had ever said such things, intended to do such things, for her. Her own intentions seemed trivial in comparison. “I–I was going to–there’s a _dress _that I had made that’s crimson and gold. A tad ostentatious for breakfast, but I was going to wear it all the same. Maybe have my handmaidens paint my face, or braid my hair again…I wanted to look beautiful for you.”

“You look beautiful now.”

She barked out a laugh. “I’m tired and bruised, Jaime.”

“War wounds.” His hand was gentle upon her face; brushing the bruised skin of her jaw and the white scar bisecting her upper lip. She smiled against his fingertips. “See? _Beautiful._”

Calloused fingers traced the line of her blush; tucked blonde hair behind her ear. When Brienne looked across at Jaime, his teeth were slowly indenting the flesh of his bottom lip. She cradled the hand caressing her face, and pressed her lips to the inside of his wrist. Again and again and _again _until Jaime was right in front of her; his hand sliding out of her grasp to palm the length of her neck. He reached up on his toes to press a kiss to the welt upon her temple; the vivid bruise upon her jaw. He was soft beyond imagination, and Brienne suddenly craved the feel of his lips on hers.

“_Jaime_.” Their eyes met; his lips a fraction too far away for her liking. “You can kiss me. If you want to.”

He let out a shuddery breath; green eyes fluttering closed. No words; Jaime’s lips were busy with other things. With great care, Jaime kissed her. His mouth was firm, and warm. He didn’t force his lips upon hers; he didn’t slobber all over her like she’d seen the boys do, first on Tarth and then at Winterfell. Two cups clattered to the floor. His hand weaved its way into her hair and held her gently as his mouth took her top lip between his, and then her bottom lip. Jaime pulled away for a brief moment before placing a last kiss upon her mouth.

He took a step back. “I want to do that every day.”

“You can.” Brienne ran her fingers across her lips, noticing Jaime’s gaze following the movement. “I want that, too. And I want us to talk about what this means for us. About what happens next.”

“Are you sure?” She nodded. She was enough for him, even now. “_Good_. Because I want that too, and I don’t think I can wait for another tomorrow.” 

He offered his hand, and Brienne took it. He led her over to a table and a set of chairs, where he waited for Brienne to sit. Rather than take the other chair, Jaime knelt at her feet. Like he had in the throne room; where he had stared up at her in aching affection, and said three words Brienne had thought she would never hear from someone who was not her father. Like he had the first day they’d met, and he had pledged himself into her service and into her heart. Jaime took her hand and kissed it. Her fingertips grazed the last place his lips had touched, and Jaime grinned.

“Queen Brienne of Tarth, first of your name, you are the first woman I have ever truly fallen in love with. I have spent the last week doing my uttermost to persuade myself otherwise out of fear of…well, I’m not sure. Because the thought of us together makes me unbelievably happy.” He kissed her hand again, and Brienne felt her face ache with the force of her smile. “Last night, I told you that I had intentions for us. I intend to court you. Buy you flowers and gifts. Wear your colours. If I was better with words, I would compose poetry for you. I cannot promise you that I will be any good at wooing you, but I hope you will feel _utterly _loved, as you have made me feel every day since I met you.”

Brienne swallowed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Perhaps he could not suffer words on a page, but the words that spilled from Jaime’s mouth held more romance than most of the ballads she’d heard as a child. “I love you, Jaime. I never thought I would ever find my equal, and someone who thought of me as an equal, too. I’m sure I’ll be awful at all of this—”

“—not a chance. You’re a fine swordsman, and a fair Queen. All I ask is that you allow me to court you, and that you occasionally wear my colours. _I mean, _I wouldn’t mind some flowers every now and again. Perhaps a gift or two. A bejewelled dagger. Can you write poetry? _One of us _should be writing poetry. Or we could pay someone to write a ballad about us? The Queen and her Hand. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Brienne nodded, and reached down to plant her lips on Jaime’s. _The Queen and her Hand. _One day – _one day soon_, she hoped_ – _they would be the Queen and her Prince Consort.


	10. Courtly Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne are in the throes of their courtship; the prospect of Brienne's nameday looms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter this week! :D I honestly hope you enjoy what is, essentially, over 5000 words of fluff. This is the longest chapter yet! 
> 
> A massive thank you to agirlnamedkeith and remuslovetonks who offered their reassurances to the very needy writer they are now friends with. Thank you both so much! <33

In his twenty years, Jaime had never, not once, _courted _a woman. But, by the Seven, Jaime _loved _it. And he was rather good at it, if he said so himself.

Fresh flowers greeted his fair maiden every morning: sunflowers, forget-me-nots; the vendor at the market had even procured some _blue star flowers _at Jaime’s behest. Brienne had particularly loved those; saying they grew in abundance near Evenfall Hall. Whilst other ladies would covet gold or jewels, Brienne was indifferent (although, she had worn a gold chain forged at the Lannisport mines to dinner with the Baratheon brothers, and Jaime had enjoyed the way it had screamed _mine, mine, mine_). Books of old stories were more to Brienne’s taste, and one in particular had earned Jaime the sort of kiss that buckled knees and would drive good men to war.

But, in the moon since their courtship had begun, there was one thing that Jaime had not yet done: wear Brienne’s colours. That was to change this very morning.

Wearing his brand-new doublet, Jaime approached Brienne’s chambers: these were larger, airier; closer to the Tower of the Hand than her previous rooms, and they did not carry the memory of her attempted assassination. Ser Jason, Ser Olyvar’s replacement to the Queensguard, let him enter without a word. Brienne’s guards no longer batted an eye at her close relationship with Jaime. Their Lord Commander led by example, and if he was content with the number of evenings they spent in each other’s company, or the hushed moans as Jaime’s lips explored the length of Brienne’s neck, then so were they.

The door closed behind him. Two lovers left alone. His beloved stood in front of the open windows, staring out onto the Bay. Jaime deposited today’s blooms (daises; their petals white and yellow), and went to join Brienne. “Quite the view, isn’t it?”

He did not mean the Bay. The quirk of Brienne’s mouth, her gaze still fixed upon the water, told him she understood the true meaning of his words. “A storm is coming.”

“Is that so?” The sky was cloudless; the rays almost warm. There was nothing on the horizon but a brief line where the sky met Blackwater Bay. Jaime slid his arms around Brienne’s waist; his lips finding the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

“We’ll see.” Brienne turned in his arms, quickly drawing in a sharp breath. “Oh, _Jaime._”

He took a step back so she could take him all in. Freshly shined boots. Tight-fitting breeches showing off the taut muscles of his thighs. A white undershirt. But the doublet, that was the _real _draw of her gaze. Soft silk; swirls of gold and azure atop a gentle blue. Gold cord laced the doublet across his chest; the eyelets framed as golden suns. The collar was high on his neck; hiding the mark Brienne’s teeth had given him the day before (quite accidentally, although he wished she’d do it more often). Everything about his apparel said _I am hers. _The quiver of Brienne’s bottom lip, the appreciative sweep of her gaze, told him he had succeeded.

“When I saw the fabric, I told the vendor I _had_ to have it.” Jaime’s arm clasped Brienne tighter against him; her fingers tracing the pattern of the material. “I told him it was the colour of my lady’s eyes.”

“Oh, _Jaime.” _A kiss to his lips. “Jaime, Jaime.” She peppered kisses across his face as her hands cradled his cheeks. Eventually, her mouth returned to his and they shared a kiss as sweet as any of their previous morning embraces. “I love you.”

“And I, you. Now, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to the Small Council meeting?”

Brienne beamed. “You may, Ser.”

Jaime offered his arm, and Brienne took it readily. He grinned as he realised they matched. Brienne wore a sweeping blue cloak; a pair of finely tailored breeches with gold embroidery along the hem. A dark tunic cut lower than typical gave Jaime a teasing glimpse of her breasts. As they approached the door, he noticed a lion broach atop her right shoulder, pinning her cloak in place. Jaime groaned, and reached up to nuzzle her neck. “There’s a lion on you.”

“More than one.” Her fingertips were warm through the fabric of his doublet as Brienne touched his chest. “We’ll be late, Jaime.”

“You’re the Queen. You’re _never _late.”

A lingering kiss to her neck turned into a passionate embrace, and it was only Brienne’s nobility in not keeping their fellow Council members waiting that drove them from her chambers. They kept a respectable distance outside his rooms and hers: their courtship, for now, was just for them. As soon as the Council knew – as soon as Jaime’s father found out – there would be an impetus for them to marry. And, _oh, _Jaime fully intended to make Brienne his bride. But not yet. Both of them would only be courted once, and Jaime was determined to enjoy every moment of it. 

So, they arrived in the Council chambers as separately as they could. Brienne entered first and immediately engaged Ser Brynden in conversation. Jaime was next; straight away caught by Olenna. She looked him up and down, both eyebrows raised high. “My, you look like a drowned cat in all that blue, boy.”

“I am merely showing my loyalty to the crown by wearing the colours of House Tarth.” Jaime leaned in close; his lips curling upwards in a sneer. “And what are you doing to show _your _loyalty, hmm?”

Olenna’s nostrils flared. Since the assassination attempt and the erasure of House Varner, Lady Tyrell had been rather silent. It seemed the turning of the moon had given the rose back it’s thorns. “My loyalty has never been in question.”

“You’re right. But loyalty to whom?”

“_Ser Jaime._” Brienne’s voice called out over the murmur of the room. Why she held a soft spot for the old bat, Jaime did not know. Perhaps he could council his Queen on a better replacement. Someone who did not have such strong ties to violent Targaryen loyalists. “Shall we begin today’s meeting?”

“Of course.” Jaime took his seat and handed out the prepared agendas. Before, Brienne had kept him company whilst he printed these papers as legibly as he could. Now, she offered him an incentive: a kiss for every completed page. “Ser Gerold has an update regarding Dragonstone; Ser Brynden the final appointment to the Queensguard. Lady Olenna wishes to discuss an upcoming event; Lord Stannis has finally completed his changes to the law.”

Brienne turned to her Master of Law first. “If you will, Lord Stannis.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Now, after completing my examination of current Westerosi law, I have suggested several amendments in light of Her Grace’s sex. When Her Grace is wed, her husband will not be known as _King. _Rather, he will officially be known as _Prince Consort._”

Stannis might well have said, _Jaime, in a few moons when you take the Queen as your bride, you will be forever known as Prince Jaime Lannister. _He stifled a grin behind his hand. It had a nice ring to it; certainly better than Lord of Casterly Rock. He risked a glance to his right, at Brienne, and found her studiously looking at the agenda in front of her. Her cheeks had a rosy hue, and Jaime wondered whether she was thinking of their wedding. Perhaps their wedding _night. _

“Her Grace’s heirs will bear _her _surname rather than her husband’s.”

Jaime had no issue with their children carrying Brienne’s name, although his father might. Gods, how far he had come_. _It wasn’t that long ago that he was a Kingsguard, facing an unknown future. Now, it was all set out in front of him. His wife, sitting beside him like the love child of the Maiden and the Warrior. Their children, Brynden and Joanna _Tarth, _with their blonde hair and blue eyes and wooden swords. A lifetime of happiness laid ahead that he would have been denied had someone else gone with Ned Stark to the throne room that day.

“Finally, Her Grace’s first-born child will be heir to the throne, regardless of sex. The second in line to the throne, regardless of sex, will inherit Evenfall Hall after the passing of Her Grace’s father.”

The Tarth line would continue; Jaime would see to that. Oh, what a _burden, _to make love to the woman he loved and see her swell with their child. He became lost in daydreams of their future, of a life he could have been denied, as the rest of the meeting happened around him. The last Targaryens were still at Dragonstone. The last member of the Queensguard had been chosen. Lady Olenna wished to host something_. _Blah, blah, blah.

“My lords, Your Grace. Upon the next moon, Her Grace’s nineteenth nameday will grace us.” _Brienne. She’s talking about Brienne. _Jaime suddenly snapped to attention. “I believe it is only customary for us to celebrate the occasion with great revelry. Might I put it to the Council that we host a tournament in honour of our Queen’s nameday?”

“A tournament?” Brienne could barely restrain her glee. “For me?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I have taken the liberty of drawing up some preliminary plans, and House Tyrell would like to _personally _provide the winner’s purse.”

Olenna’s beady eyes found Jaime’s. Oh, _that_ was how she intended to show her loyalty. _Fine. _He would not council Brienne against her just yet. Not when his Queen, his love, looked so happy.

\--

Brienne could not recall a time she had been so happy. They were to host a tournament for _her; _for her nameday. A joust, a melee, an archery competition. A winner’s purse for all three events, and the opportunity for the victors to crown their Queen of Love and Beauty. Brienne cared little for that (as if anyone would crown _her _so, even as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms). But a _tournament…_the clang of steel on steel; the smell of sweat and blood. And she in the thrust of it all. Brienne would finally be able to enter a tournament herself rather than languish in the stands. She would win, too.

Perhaps she would crown Jaime her Queen of Love and Beauty. He was, after all, the other reason why she was so happy.

Jaime stood, now, dressed in breeches and a muslin shirt; the doublet in her colours folded and stored safely back in his chambers. His golden hair ruffled in the slight breeze, and his eyes softened the instant he caught her approach. _Yes, _he would make the perfect Queen of Love and Beauty. Her _love_. Brienne couldn’t help but grin as she bounded over immediately pressing a hand to the nape of his neck and drawing Jaime into a gentle kiss.

When she pulled away, Jaime’s face was unusually flushed. “Wha–what was that for?”

“I just wanted to kiss you.” She leant in again, stealing a kiss before pressing a bundle of linen against his chest. “I have a gift for you.”

Jaime grinned as he unwrapped her present; green eyes bright as he caught sight of the exquisite dagger she had commissioned from a blacksmith back home on Tarth. The blade was sharp; the handle adorned with gold and sapphires. So far, Brienne had struggled in their courtship. Jaime was made for love: he gave her flowers, and jewels, and books. She…she had written a few notes; paltry expressions of love on scraps of parchment. She held him, and kissed him – too vigorously, perhaps; her teeth had caught his neck the other day and she’d bruised him.

Daily she had to remind herself that courtship was not a competition. But Brienne hoped that the dagger was a suitable romantic offering. “Do you like it?”

“I _love it._” He mimed thrusting the blade into an opponent’s torso; upper cutting into a man’s stomach. Jaime beamed as he fastened the dagger to the sword belt around his hip. “I love _you, _Brienne.”

“And I you, Jaime.”

Another kiss. Brienne’s hands gripped the blades of Jaime’s shoulders; his sword clattering to the floor as his arms enfolded her waist and held her firm. _Oh, _what it felt like to be kissed like this. Jaime’s lips were supple; his tongue and teeth eager in exploring her mouth. There were some nights they simply spent the hours kissing until Brienne’s lips were swollen and her body could barely draw another breath. There were some days that all Brienne wanted to do was kiss Jaime.

Now, she wanted to fight him, too. She slipped out of his embrace, ignoring Jaime’s moan of annoyance, and reached for her blade. Reluctantly, Jaime retrieved his. “We could be inside doing a _different _kind of sparring, Brienne.”

“Is Ser Jaime Lannister backing down from a fight? I never thought I’d see the day.” She took position. “Anyway, we’ll need all the practice we can get before my nameday tournament.”

Jaime thrust his blade forward; Brienne countered him away. His forehead creased as he prepared his next attack. “‘We’? Brienne, you know…_you know, _don’t you?”

A flurry of blows; her blade sailing past his ear. “‘Know’, what?”

“That you won’t be able to compete in the tournament yourself.”

Brienne’s blade slashed through the air; sparks flying as steel met steel. Her happiness at the tournament quickly evaporated. _You thought they’d let you compete? You, a woman? They would never want you; they would never have you; they would never— _“I’m as good as _any _of them, Jaime. I’m as good as you.”

“Better, I’m sure. Brienne, this isn’t a matter of capability. You would drive many a good knight into the dirt. This is about your _safety_. It was only a moon ago that you were covered in the blood of two men with a gash across your arm!”

Her wound had healed; the bruising had faded. She was _fine, _and she could _fight. _Her blade moved forward but her anger was her undoing: Jaime quickly drove her towards the edge of the plateau, and Brienne had to tumble to the side lest she concede a point. She wiped the sweat from her brow. She was fine. She could _fight. _“I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Ser Jaime.”

“_Ser_—” He growled, and his sword stabbed at the air beside her left hip. She drove his blade upwards. “Well, _Your Grace, _forgive me for fearing for the safety of the woman I love!”

“I care for your safety, too, Ser. The man _I _love. Should I tell you not to compete, too?” 

“I am not the Queen!” They exchanged another flurry of blows; their fervour resulting in an equal fight. “Brienne, if any remaining loyalists do not _kill _you in the melee, then those who are true to you will not lay a _hand _on you! Do you think they will risk leaving a cut, or a bruise? You are their _Queen. _They will not hurt you. They will hold back.” Jaime dropped his sword arm; his battle done. “They will hold back, Brienne, and your victory will be meaningless.”

“So, I am to _never _compete?” Brienne’s arm fell as well; the fight draining out of her. “It’s my nameday, Jaime. All I have ever longed for is to be a knight. To fight in a tournament, to win, to show them _all _what I am capable of. Is it selfish of me to want these things?”

Jaime made a trepidatious approach; his hand encircling her wrist. “You are the most selfless woman I have ever met. You fought in a war that was not yours to fight. You took up the crown to keep our people safe. You are _far _from selfish.” His hand slid from her wrist to brush the blonde hair falling into her eyes. “Gods above, I love you so much. I wish I could fix this. I wish I could tell you that these things were possible for you. But they’re not. I’m so sorry, Brienne.”

“As am I.” She wet her top lip, easing out of Jaime’s embrace. “I suppose, in time, I will get used to it. But every new restriction: the constant guards, the attempts on my life, not being able to compete…I am the _Queen, _Jaime. Everything has changed yet nothing has changed.”

“Some things will, and for the better. You will marry for love. As Queen, you can sire the first female knight. She can be in your Queensguard, and protect our daughters.” _Our daughters. _Brienne felt herself smile; just for a moment. “I’m sorry I cannot do more, Brienne. All I can offer is myself; one of the finest knights in the realm for you to spar with.”

“And you’ll never hold back?”

Jaime looked at her directly; his green eyes sharper than she’d ever seen them. “Never.”

“Alright.” Brienne lifted her sword and took position. If this was all she could have, she would make it be enough. “Victor chooses their spoils.”

Jaime brought his sword to her face; the tip of his blade hovering just in front of her mouth. “I intend to claim those lips as my spoils, Your Grace.”

“You’ll have to win first, Ser. I will not make it easy on you.”

“Then the victory shall be even sweeter.”

A kiss was promised, whoever won. Yet they fought as if the Iron Throne itself was in the offing. Brienne threw all her energy into winning this single bout as if it was indeed her nameday melee; as if the final battle had come down to her and the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock. Jaime was good; the best she’d ever fought. But he was right to say that she was better. She was faster; he perhaps more skilled but often arrogant in his approach. Their swords kissed, a prelude to her victory. Her foot curled around his ankle; her sword snatching his out of his grasp. Victory was hers.

Down Jaime went. Brienne followed. She straddled his hips and pinned both hands above his head. She took in her prize with relish. Not quite a winner’s purse, but he would still be her Queen of Love and Beauty. “Do you yield, Ser Jaime?”

Teeth teased his bottom lip; green eyes as molten as wildfire. “Yes. _Yes._ I yield, Your Grace.”

Her mouth covered Jaime’s. A punishing kiss as Brienne took her pleasure; as her teeth toyed with the plump flesh of his bottom lip. Her tongue ran over the seam of his mouth before slipping inside. Brienne’s hands cupped his face; fingers carding through his golden mane. Jaime keened; back bowing. He was warm, and firm underneath her. Brienne felt a familiar ripple of heat at the sensation; the slow ebb of pleasure at the touch of his mouth, the feel of his body against hers.

She pulled away for a moment, adjusting the slight position of her hips. If they were to kiss for some time, she wanted to be comfortable. “You’ll have to move your dagger; it’s digging into my leg.”

Jaime’s eyes immediately widened, and Brienne quickly found their positions reversed. Only Jaime did not pin her to the ground. Instead, he stumbled to his feet. Brienne felt that flicker of heat replaced by a familiar coolness. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just…give me a minute.”

_Oh. _Like the kiss to his neck, she had gone too far. Brienne was still so new to this. Her first kiss with Jaime had been her first kiss with _anyone; _he was both her tutor and her love. Brienne was aware she was not his first _anything. _There would always be comparisons of the way she kissed, the way she touched, the way she eventually made love to him. Brienne clearly needed more tutelage, and without a mother to ask (she would _not _go to Olenna; Jaime would be mortified), more practice was required. Like sparring. An hour before breakfast, an hour before she turned in. She would be as adept with her lips as she was with her sword. She would—

A raindrop fell atop her nose. Then another. And another. A deluge of rain poured from the heavens; Jaime and her Queensguard swearing and suddenly running to shelter. Brienne did not run. She looked out onto the Bay: the sheet of rain; the crack of thunder splitting open the sky. With all these new challenges, new expectations, Brienne felt more and more unsure of herself. But the joy of a summer storm united Queen Brienne and the Maid of Tarth. She could not help her smile_. _

\--

Jaime could not begrudge the sudden summer storm: after all, it had brought a smile to Brienne’s face that had been missing since their conversation about the tournament. It had also provided Jaime the distraction he needed for his cock to soften and his arousal to plummet. There was nothing stimulating about being cold and wet; _plenty _stimulating about his warrior Queen straddling his hips as she took what she wanted. His cock didn’t have time to think of such things as they fled inside the Red Keep, rushing to the Tower of the Hand.

Two of his household staff attended to them immediately. Jaime shook his sodden hair like a wet pup. “Fresh towels, hot water, and some dry clothes. Lysa, go to the Queen’s chambers and ask for some from her handmaidens. We do not want Her Grace to catch a chill.”

“At once, my Lord.”

Jaime opened his chamber door and hustled Brienne inside. The room was cool; rain hammering against the window panes. He began rubbing his hands up and down her bare arms, trying to keep her warm. All of this, and Brienne’s smile had not faded once. “You truly are a girl from the Stormlands, aren’t you?”

“No better sound than the sound of rain – other than the sound of steel on steel, of course.” Brienne’s teeth chattered, and Jaime continued his ministrations. “I _told _you there was a storm coming.”

“So you did. Are you a witch as well as a warrior?”

Brienne snorted. “Nothing like that. I could just smell it in the air. _Taste _it, even. Taste the rain.”

Jaime could, indeed, taste it. Drops of water trickled down Brienne’s face and chin, over her neck and down the valley between her breasts. The shirt she wore, plain and functional for sparring, was now moulded to her form. Her breasts were practically visible through the material; pink nipples standing erect against the fabric. Her shirt clung to the muscles of her stomach; the jut of her hips. Jaime licked his lips. What he wouldn’t give to press his mouth to her throat, to lap the rainwater from her skin. To peel those clothes from her body and keep her warm with his and his alone.

Blood rushed to his cock. _Fuck. _“I–I should go see how they’re doing with those towels.”

“Oh. If you must.”

As he left Brienne alone in his chambers, Jaime struggled to dampen his arousal. Brienne was a maiden; he did not want to scare her with such carnal desires. So, he tried to calm his. He thought of flowers. Grass. The picnic he had planned this eve with Brienne where he’d hoped she would leave more marks against his skin. _Fuck. _Castles. Arrows. Swords. Brienne swinging her sword; making him yield underneath those powerful thighs. _Fuck. _His father. His uncle Kevan. His aunt Genna. His aunt Genna’s disapproval if she were to catch him in such an intimate moment with the Queen. _Well, that did it. _

Jaime found one of the servants; a stack of towels in her arms. He and Brienne would be dry, but their evening plans were still ruined. Unless— “Thank you for these. However, I have another task for you.”

After relaying his orders, Jaime took the towels back to Brienne. They dried off in silence; his love caught up in her own thoughts. Jaime considered asking, considered offering his council. But he could not think of a way to appease her desire to compete in her nameday tournament. It wasn’t safe for her. All it would take was one sly dagger, one blow to the head, and she would be gone; leaving the Kingdoms – and Jaime – bereft. Brienne had named her father as her heir until she gave birth to her – their – first babe, but Jaime feared for the state of Lord Tarth if he lost his only child.

He couldn’t fix this. But he hoped he could make Brienne happy in other ways.

Now dry and in fresh clothes, Jaime offered his hand to his beloved. “Hungry?”

“A little. Have you sent for some food?”

“Something like that.”

Brienne’s forehead furrowed, yet she still took his hand. Jaime led her from his chambers and up the spiral steps of his Tower. There was a room at the very top; abandoned and disused for years. It had a view clear across the Bay, and a single set of stairs leading to its door. The Queensguard, now also dry, could wait at the bottom of the steps. He and Brienne could have some well-deserved privacy, as should be afforded to all courting couples.

“I had planned a romantic picnic for us this evening, but your storm rather left me adrift. May I present my alternative?”

Jaime opened the door. His servants had done well. The room was filled with flowers: sunflowers, forget-me-nots, blue stars. No roses; Ser Gerold Storm had pulled him aside one day and said in no uncertain terms that he was not to offer them to the Queen. As a symbol of House Tyrell, Jaime was happy to forego them in favour of more beautiful blooms. This empty room was now a meadow; in the centre, a blanket and a spread of food and wine. Candles cast the room in an ethereal glow; the closest he could come to starlight. Jaime plucked a flower from a bouquet and slid into his hair. He then laid atop the blanket and patted the space beside him.

“Is this satisfactory, my lady?”

Brienne stared, open-mouthed, at his efforts. “Jaime, this is beyond my wildest imaginations.” Her smile widened at the sight of him with a flower in his hair. “You look like a woodland nymph.”

“Well, come, let me draw you into my circle of stones and have you never leave.” Jaime loved how free he felt with Brienne. Others would disparage him for his romantic words, his dress. But tonight, he was not the Warrior others expected him to be. He was a lovelorn prince utterly bewitched by the Maiden, and he himself would be an offering to her. “I have food, and wine, and lips that long to kiss yours.” 

“Are you sure?” Her boots scuffed the floor; her gaze fixed upon the stone. “We could wait until I’m better.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Better at what? Kissing? Brienne, you are already a master of the art. Although, if you wish to practice, I’d be more than happy to spend entire nights with your mouth on mine.”

Now it was she who looked confused. “But on the plateau…we were kissing and you practically tossed me aside! And in your chambers, you were touching me and then suddenly you could not be further away. I know that you have experience with another, and I—”

“—have _not _been found wanting.” Jaime’s head drooped, mentally kicking himself for his actions. In his desire to spare Brienne his lustful thoughts, he had driven her to think he compared her and his sister. There was no comparison in his mind that left Brienne inferior. “The truth of the matter is that I want you. Deeply. _Physically._”

Brienne stared blankly for a moment before her eyes jerked to his cock. “_Oh. _You were hard!” Jaime raised a single eyebrow; not expecting _that _response. Nor the following one. Brienne spluttered, a hand covering her mouth as her face turned pink. “Your _face. _Jaime, I am not quite the blushing maiden I may appear, Ser. I lived in camp with soldiers for a year, if you recall. I just never expected _me_ to make you hard.”

“_Well, _you do. This isn’t the first time, either.” He had yet to tell Brienne of his dreams; dreams that had not stopped in their frequency but had become more accurate as to the feel of Brienne’s lips and the sound of her breathy moans. “Brienne, nothing you do displeases me. I love the way you kiss. I love how your court me: the dagger; the notes. I have kept every single one.” Brienne inhaled sharply. “I love that you kissed me today because you wanted to. Do not think yourself wanting. I have every intention of becoming Jaime Lannister, Prince Consort to the Queen.”

Brienne chuckled; both recalling Stannis’ description of their future. She finally joined him on the blanket, and adjusted the flower in his hair. “Prince Jaime with his flower crown. _My_ Jaime.”

“Yes. _Yours._” His hand brushed hers. “_Always yours. _These colours mark me. This—” He adjusted his collar so Brienne could see the love bite she had left against his skin. “—this makes me yours. It’s all I want in this world, Brienne. To be yours, and yours alone.”

“Alright.”

Jaime was then surprised by Brienne once more. Two hands pressed firmly against his shoulders as she pushed him down to the picnic blanket. Her legs swung over his hips, straddling his stirring cock. Brienne’s fingertips traced the buttons of his doublet – _her colours _– before undoing the first two. Her hands caressed his hair; stroked the petals of the bloom resting atop his ear. Throat bared; Brienne bent her head to the mark she had left before. Her tongue laved over the spot; her lips kissing and sucking. She moved upwards and teased his skin with her teeth. A low groan left his lips, and Brienne returned to them; taking him in a series of soft kisses. She whispered, “_Mine,” _against his mouth.

He was her knight, her Hand, her Prince. _Hers. _As she was his, and would be in the Sept of Baelor before too long. Brienne’s nameday would come; all Seven Kingdoms would toast to their Queen. Jaime hoped that soon after they would celebrate their wedding.


	11. The Golden Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young lovers find it difficult to maintain propriety; Jaime meets an old friend of Brienne’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise for the delay in updates. As I was working on chapter 11, I got into an accident in my car. There was a lot to take care of, and it sent me into a cloud of depression for quite some time. When I got out of said cloud, I began working on chapter 11 and realised that my current plan was *not* working. So, after re-working the chapter structure (HHH will end in the original 15 chapters, rather than 18 as previously planned), I was able to sit down and write chapter 11.
> 
> And chapter 12. And 13. And 14. And 15! HHH is written in its entirety; it just needs to be edited. So, whilst you may have had to wait eight weeks between 10 and 11, it will only be a matter of days between 11 and 12. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has been so considerate during this unexpected hiatus; I really hope you like what is to come. Also, a thank you and a big bar of chocolate to remuslovestonks and agirlnamedkeith who have offered their support and enthusiasm as I sent them gdrive links of chapters. You two are incredible; I'm so lucky to count you as my friends. 
> 
> Happy reading!

_Brienne entered the tent emblazoned with the sigil of House Tarth. Her squire, a young boy from the Stormlands, took her sword and began attending to the fastenings of her armour. The blue metal was now scuffed and dented; the steel hiding a multitude of cuts and bruises. There was a slash across her brow; a purple bruise blooming across her cheek. Tomorrow she would feel every wound, every ache. Some would question whether she had made the right decision to enter the melee. _

_But with her lips pulled into a wide smile, Brienne had no such doubts. _

_The tent flaps opened. She looked up to see the Hand to the Queen stride in. The last vestiges of sunlight cast a halo around his golden head; Jaime’s green eyes almost disappearing into blackness. He wet his top lip as he stared at her. “Boy, be somewhere else.” _

_“Of–of course, my Lord.” _

_Her squire disappeared, leaving the Queen and her Hand alone. Jaime marched forward; Brienne retreating to the post in the centre of the tent. Her back met wood. Jaime stopped, paused; gaze hot as he stared upon her. She did not have to look down to know that the front of his breeches was tight; the material straining against his stiff cock. If he was any other man, he would unlace his breeches and ask the maiden in front of him for pleasure. But there were no men like Jaime. Instead, he took upon the role of her squire and removed her armour, his touches restrained to the absolutely necessary, until she was in her soft tunic and breeches. _

_Only now did he touch her. His lips were faint against her jaw; his breath soft as he whispered in her ear. “Do you have any idea what it did to me to see you out there? To see you fight like the Warrior? I’ve never_—_”_

_Brienne kissed him. Pulled him up by his golden mane and placed her mouth upon his. Teeth nipped at his bottom lip, drawing it between her own. She tugged at his hair, holding him desperately close. His hands were on her waist; the laces of her breeches. Nimble fingers undid the knots quickly and suddenly they were pooled at her feet. Her smallclothes, too. She’d witnessed similar things in the camp during Robert’s rebellion. They’d win a victory, and the camp followers would pleasure the soldiers with their hands, their mouths. _

_Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock fell to his knees and pressed his mouth to her cunt. _

And that was when Brienne woke up.

Jerked awake, she quickly sought the source of the disruption. There was murmured voices outside her door; the changing of her Queensguard. Satisfied she would not be attacked in her own bed once again, Brienne collapsed against the sheets. The rush of her dream still lingered; a familiar ache settling low in her belly. This was not the first dream she’d had of her beloved: as they grew bolder with each other, so did her nocturnal imaginings. Nor would this be the first morning she had satisfied herself to thoughts of Jaime; of what they could do to each other when they did not have to worry about such things as _propriety. _

Perhaps tomorrow, Brienne would find restraint. But today, buoyed by her nameday celebrations, she decided her own fingers were _not_ enough.

Slipping silently out of bed, Brienne reached for her robe and pulled it around her shoulders. Then, with great care not to make a sound, she approached the false bookcase in the corner of her room and fled into the halls. Thankfully, the corridors of the Red Keep were quiet. Some were no doubt sleeping off the effects of a raucous night celebrating her nameday, and the first day of her tournament. Others would soon awaken, heading to the tourney ground to prepare for the joust. Brienne used her window of opportunity to travel unseen to Jaime’s chambers. She knew the secret ways into his room, too. It did not take much for her to enter. And there he was. Her golden lion.

Brienne peeled off her robe and draped it across a chair. With gentle footsteps, she approached the bed. Jaime was bare-chested; a hand resting low on his abdomen. He slept peacefully until a misplaced foot led her knee to connect with a nearby table. Jaime startled into wakefulness. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

Jaime peered into the depths of his chambers; face softening when he realised it was truly her. “_Brienne_. What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I wanted to see you.” Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip. Perhaps this had not been such a good idea after all. “Do you wish for me to go?”

He shook his head, rubbing his face clear of sleep. “Not at all. Come here.”

She took the last few steps to his bed, taking Jaime’s hand as he pulled her onto the mattress. They had shared his bed once before, after the assassination attempt. But Ser Brynden did not watch over them now. It was just the two of them: in a quiet room; upon cool sheets. Brienne settled herself in the space beside Jaime and placed a hand on his chest. His skin was smooth, firm, with fine golden hair. Her thumb brushed over a nipple and he shivered. Propping himself up on one elbow, Jaime stroked her hair as she continued her exploration of his bare skin.

“Why did you really come to see me, Brienne?”

Her fingers paused at the laces of his breeches; memories of his own fingers coming back to her. “I dreamed of you.”

Groaning, Jaime lowered his head and captured her mouth in a kiss. It was nothing like the soft, almost chaste kisses with which they now began each morning. This was hungry, desperate: Jaime’s tongue pressed inside her mouth before pulling back to nip at her plump lower lip. Her fingers carded through his hair; one hand finding purchase on his bare shoulder as Jaime moved his body to cover hers. This wasn’t the first time she had felt Jaime’s hardness against her thigh. This was the first time she curled her leg over his hip to pull him closer.

A moan fell from her lips as Jaime sucked at the pulse point on her neck. He rocked his hips against hers; the movement flooding her body with heat. She wrapped her leg tighter around him, wanting, nay _needing, _more. _More, more, more. _“_Jaime._”

_“Brienne,”_ he gasped, before suddenly pulling away from her completely. He lay flat on his back, sucking in breath after breath. She moved to touch him again, but he raised a single hand. “No, Brienne. _Please._”

“Did I—”

“No, love.” He closed his eyes briefly; a wicked grin forming on his lips. “One more touch, and I would spend in my breeches like a squire discovering his cock for the first time. And it’s always awkward looking the servants in the eye after that.” 

“_Oh._” Jaime’s lust for her was still a marvel; how she could undo him so quickly filled her with the tiniest sliver of pride. Grinning, she stared at her beloved until he opened his eyes and met her gaze. They shared an easy smile. “Just think, Jaime: a few more moons and we won’t have to stop at all.”

“A few more moons.” He rolled onto his side, facing her. His hand slid over her hip, rolling her to face him, too. His fingertips drew circles through the fabric of her shift; green eyes sparkling. “Does it _have_ to be a few more? If it was up to me, I’d elope with you to the nearest sept and claim you as my wife today.”

Her stomach fluttered. The thought of that; of calling Jaime _husband _as freely as she called him her friend, her Hand, filled her with joy. She did not think she could wait much longer, either. But it was not as if she was still the daughter of a minor house. She was the _Queen, _and with that carried certain expectations. “Perhaps we can discuss moving up our plans after the tournament?”

“Yes!” Jaime cried out, before laughing softly at his own eagerness. “I mean, I think that is a wise decision. The sooner the better. As your Hand, I must remind Your Grace of how _imperative _it is to provide an heir for the Kingdoms. Two would be best. Three, even better.”

“Of course, of course.” Brienne beamed; her fingertips reaching out to stroke the line of his jaw. “And you would be willing to help with this, I assume?”

“Oh, _of course._” Jaime bit his lower lip, bending his head to nuzzle at her throat. “I am at your service, Your Grace. Day and night. For whatever you desire.”

At that moment, Brienne of Tarth desired _him. _She placed a hand upon his shoulder and pinned him to the mattress as she claimed his mouth for her own. She’d claim the rest of him soon enough. Two more days. Her nameday tournament would draw to a close and they could discuss how to announce their engagement. Then they would be betrothed, and wed, and Ser Brynden Tully would _not _have to knock on Ser Jaime’s door to ask him if he had seen the Queen before he launched a castle-wide search party. _Two more days. _

\--

The second day of the Queen’s nameday tournament had already proved to be _far _better than the first. Jaime had no interest in archery, axe-throwing, or feats of strength. Therefore, the sole enjoyment of the previous day had been sitting upon Brienne’s right, stealing glimpses of his beloved whilst she revelled in _her _tournament. Of course, every look, every touch, had to be beyond reproach. The Small Council sat with them on the dais. Brienne’s father, Lord Selwyn, sat on her left. They were simply Queen and Hand in the eyes of the Court, in the eyes of her father.

There were no such eyes in Jaime’s bedchambers, however. Today had brought Brienne to his rooms, to his _bed, _and Jaime had kissed and touched Brienne until they both lay gasping. Until Ser Brynden had knocked upon the door, his voice laced with both hope _and _disappointment as he asked whether the Queen was inside. Soon, _thankfully_, Jaime would stand up in a sept and claim Brienne as his own. He would be her husband, and there was nothing, _no one, _who could prevent the intimacy between them. Early in their acquaintance, he had craved her fingers upon his face; her arms around his back. Now Jaime longed for her lips on his; her body warm and willing atop his own. _Soon. _

“Ser Jaime?”

“Hmm?” Distracted from his thoughts of Brienne, Jaime realised his new squire was trying to gain his attention. The boy held a breastplate in his hands. “Oh, of course. Go on.”

After Brienne had been hustled from his rooms, Jaime, in turn, had hustled to the tourney ground. The second day of Brienne’s tournament was a joust. Horsemen from across the Seven Kingdoms had travelled to pit their lances against each other in the hopes of winning a purse of gold dragons and, no doubt, the new Queen’s favour. Not that Jaime needed either. Yet his father had provided his son a horse and new lances with a lion’s head at the tip. As if the lion heads on his armour, and the Lannister flag atop his tent, weren’t clue enough. Perhaps his father hoped he would impress a young maiden or her father in the crowds.

There was only one young maiden he hoped to impress, however, and she was already his.

“_You know, they told me the new Queen was ugly. I didn’t realise _how _ugly._”

_“I thought maybe the winner of the tournament would win her hand. Not sure I’d want it, even if I _did _get to be King._”

Hearing talk of Brienne, Jaime waved away his squire and stepped outside the tent to see who would _dare _talk about her in such a fashion. A handful of knights had gathered; the men descending into laughter as they talked of their Queen. Of _Brienne. _Jaime’s hand formed a fist. How _dare _they show so little respect? How _dare _they act like Brienne would ever _demean _herself to marry one of them? His stomach twisted as their laughter grew. Aerys would have roasted them alive for a misplaced look, let alone such hateful words.

But Brienne was not Aerys Targaryen, and their japes continued unimpeded.

Another man joined the fray. Stocky, with long red hair and a scraggly beard. One of the knights addressed him. “What say you, Connington? How much gold would have to be in the winner’s purse for you to lay with the Queen?”

He guffawed. Jaime’s knuckles clenched. “Would you believe that the Queen and I were once betrothed?” Their laughter stopped. Jaime’s jaw fell slack. _Betrothed?_ _Him?_ “A match made between her father and mine. Tall, ugly thing, even then. Still, I wish it had now gone ahead. I would be King of the Seven Kingdoms; could send her back to Tarth whilst I sat on the Iron Throne.”

Their laughter began anew as the gaggle of knights departed for the tiltyard. Jaime squeezed and released his hand; the urge to strike the redheaded man across the face remaining but the subject gone. A presence came up beside him: his squire. “My Lord? Is everything alright?”

“Those knights. Find me their names.”

As Hand to the Queen, Jaime could not let such dissension fester. Brienne was their _Queen, _and she deserved their fealty. He just hoped he would be matched with one or more of them in the lists. He’d knock them all into the dirt. A shame, perhaps, that Brienne did not joust. Their laughter would quickly dry up as she unseated every single one of those cunts.

Shaking his head, Jaime turned to finish getting ready. However, he caught sight of another who had been watching the crude events unfold: Ser Gerold, Brienne’s Master of Ships. He nodded at his fellow Small Council member. “Good morning, Ser Gerold. What brings you here?”

“My son is competing; I came to wish him good fortune. Unfortunately, I seem to have reacquainted myself with Ser Ronnet Connington.” 

The man with red hair. Brienne’s former betrothed. “You know of him?”

“Everyone on Tarth knows that cunt. Whilst Her Grace is no Highgarden rose, she is a good woman and deserves more respect than Connington gave her.” Ser Gerold sighed. “Do you remember when I said Her Grace does not care for roses?”

Jaime nodded. At the time, Ser Gerold’s advice had seemed innocent enough. As the house sigil of the old bat, Jaime had been more than happy to avoid them. Now it seemed as if there was more to the story. “Her dislike of them comes from Connington?”

“Aye, they do.” Ser Gerold opened his mouth, as if to say something more. He stopped himself. “It is not my story to tell, Ser Jaime. You should ask Brienne.”

“I shall.” A horn cut through the morning breeze. It was time. “Good day to you, Ser Gerold.”

“And you, Ser Jaime.”

With a nod, Jaime left to make the final adjustments to his armour before proceeding to the tourney ground. He thought of Brienne, as he often did. He thought of what he knew of her before her wardship at Winterfell. _I was betrothed, but I refused to marry him, _she’d said, early in their acquaintance. _Father sent me North to learn the meaning of duty. _So Connington was the man she had refused. Connington was the man who, in a way, had led her into Jaime’s life. He did not know whether to thank the man or strike him.

Seeing his smug face as they gathered in front of the herald – thinking of Brienne’s dislike for roses; Connington’s earlier laughter – led Jaime to decide quite easily.

The herald announced the initial round: first to ride would be Ser Jaime Lannister, Hand to the Queen, and Ser Ronnet Connington. The knight had the good sense to appear nervous: Jaime carried a certain reputation, more with a sword than a lance but there were few challenges as a knight of which he was not adept. Grinning, Jaime mounted his steed, took his helm and shield, and trotted towards the tiltyard. There was raucous cheer and applause as the Golden Lion came on the field. Whilst his father was loathed by the lowborns, Brienne had ensured everyone knew – from the corridors of the Red Keep to the slums of Fleabottom – that Jaime had saved the people of King’s Landing.

And there she was. His Queen. She wore a deep blue tunic with embroidered moons in silver thread, and a coral cloak pinned to her left shoulder by a lion’s head. Brienne rose from her throne atop the dais and approached him and Ser Ronnet, who had joined Jaime on his own horse.

Jaime lifted his helm and nodded at his beloved. “Your Grace.”

Ser Ronnet barely lifted his visor; his eyeline focussed on the wooden platform rather than his Queen. “Your Grace.”

A muscle twitched in Brienne’s jaw as she looked upon her former betrothed. Although Jaime had yet to know the full story of their engagement, he could certainly see why Brienne had rejected him. Connington was crude, snide; unworthy of her kindness, her strength. His presence unsettled her, however, and Jaime longed to jump from his mount and give Brienne the comfort they had so often offered each other. But then her gaze slid to his and held it; her chin lifting. It was as if the very sight of him gave her strength.

“Ride true, gentlemen.”

Without another word, Ser Ronnet grabbed the reins of his horse and made for his side of the tiltyard. Jaime did not know why he paused, perhaps to take another look at Brienne, but he was glad he did. The tension had drained from her. She now smiled, descending the steps of the dais until she was beside his horse. From her sleeve, Brienne removed a handkerchief. Tarth blue, with gold suns and silver moons. The embroidery was a little haphazard in places: that was how Jaime knew Brienne had sewn this herself. Her favour.

“Your Grace—” _Everyone will know, Brienne. _

She smirked. “The sooner the better, remember?”

The Small Council, Brienne’s father, and the entire Court watched as Queen Brienne knotted a handkerchief bearing her House sigil around Ser Jaime’s wrist. Perhaps her actions could be explained away as the Queen favouring her Hand. To those close enough to see the look they shared, the love clear in their gaze, it was obvious that this was a gesture of courtship. Brienne had just declared who she intended to have. He would be no king: Connington and his friends had been misinformed in that regard. But Jaime would be _hers. _

“Good luck, Jaime.”

He brushed the silk of her favour with his glove. “I have no need for luck.” _I have you. _

The horn sounded. Jaime dropped his helm and made for the other side of the tiltyard. His squire handed him his lance. Jaime held it straight, and true, and aimed for the joins in Connington’s armour. He intended to drop him on the first ride. For the comments. For the rose. A second horn. Jaime pressed his heels into the flanks of his horse and sped towards Connington. He cared little for winning the tournament, of the lance of the other knight. All he cared for was the lion’s head aimed directly at Ser Ronnet.

Direct hit. The crowd roared. Ser Ronnet fell backwards; the tip of Jaime’s lance embedded in his shoulder. A Maester ran onto the field. Jaime lifted his helm and caught Brienne’s eye. _For you. _

\--

After Ronnet Connington was carried off the field, the second day of Brienne’s nameday tournament continued to surpass all her expectations. Knights from the Stormlands, including Ser Gerold’s son, dominated the field. Men she had fought alongside in the rebellion pledged their fealty as they bowed their heads; their expressions warm as one of their own sat upon the Iron Throne. Yet, there was no spectacle greater than Ser Jaime Lannister. The Golden Lion of Casterly Rock cut through every opponent. He defeated each knight until it was only he who stood before her.

Helmet removed; Jaime knelt in front of the dais. The herald presented him, as if he needed such introductions. “Your Grace, may I present the champion of your joust: Ser Jaime of House Lannister.”

The crowd applauded. Brienne stepped forward. She offered her hand, and Jaime took it as he rose to his feet. “Ser Jaime, you rode valiantly today. As winner of my joust, I present to you this winner’s purse.”

Her squire presented Jaime with a velvet bag of Highgarden gold. Brienne rolled her eyes good-naturedly as her Hand stared over her shoulder towards her Master of Coin; Jaime smirking at Lady Olenna. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I have no need for gold. My prize shall go to the good people of King’s Landing, so they can drink to your health and good fortune!”

The lowborn cheered. The nobility offered polite applause; most of whom would never be rich enough to undertake such a gesture. Of course, there was one more prize to be offered. Brienne’s squire placed the wreath in Jaime’s hands; the herald stepping forward. “Ser Jaime, you may now appoint your Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Brienne saw many a noble lady primp in anticipation. But Jaime had eyes for no one but her. “Your Grace, the only Queen I serve is you. Would you do me the great honour of being my Queen of Love and Beauty?”

She said not a word; just offered a simple nod. Brienne bowed her head to accept the crown of wildflowers, trying to act graceful in this moment of serenity. As she straightened, she tried to act as if her face wasn’t the colour of her beloved’s house sigil. In her nineteen years, Brienne had attended a handful of tournaments. No one had ever…she’d _never _thought anyone would crown her Queen, let alone one of love, of _beauty. _But here was the most beautiful man in all of Westeros who saw those qualities inside of her.

She swallowed. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

The herald drew the second day of her tournament to a close. He bowed at Brienne, who nodded in return. She could feel every eye upon her: her father, Olenna, the rest of her Small Council. They wanted answers_; _to know what was between her and Ser Jaime_. _But this was a tournament in her honour, for her nineteenth nameday no less. Her last had been spent covered in mud, fearing in her heart that it would be her last. She wanted to celebrate this milestone before she celebrated her next. So, whilst the herald announced the times for the melee tomorrow, Brienne took her leave.

Rather than be escorted to her chambers, Brienne walked without question to the Tower of the Hand. She wished to spend the evening with her beloved, and celebrate his victory just the two of them. When she arrived, Jaime had not yet returned. So, she took the liberty of sending for food and wine. She then found a book of stories Jaime was making slow progress though, and read until she heard footsteps outside. The door swung open. Jaime moved stiffly through; his muslin shirt undone, revealing a vicious bruise upon his right shoulder. Jaime grinned as he took in her presence.

“Two visits in one day. What have I done to deserve such favour?”

“Won my joust.” Brienne placed a featherlight kiss to Jaime’s lips as he joined her at the table. “Defeated a man I despise most effortlessly.”

Jaime grinned against her mouth. “If it’s Ser Ronnet you’re talking about, believe me, the pleasure was all mine. Only a shame I could not unseat him. I’d have enjoyed introducing his wretched face to the dirt.”

Brienne grinned: an unseemly thing, perhaps, to smile over another’s misfortune, but Connington deserved much worse than an embedded lance in the shoulder. And Jaime deserved more than a chaste kiss for his victory. Whilst her beloved sat in the other chair, Brienne stood and settled herself in his lap. Jaime grinned as her arms laced around his neck, taking gentle care not to disturb his injured shoulder, as she rewarded him with a passionate kiss. Her tongue slid inside his mouth, tracing his own, as Jaime’s hands spanned her back. She nibbled at his lower lip; her hips pressing intently against his.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Jaime pulled back. “_Brienne…fuck. _You must _really _despise him. Though, having now met the man, I can see why you refused him.”

Brienne blinked. “Refused _him? _I didn’t.” Where would Jaime even _get _such an idea? “He rejected _me._”

“But…I overheard him say you two were betrothed. Moons ago, after I received Cersei’s letter, we talked for _hours. _You told me your father had set up a match but you refused him, and because of that you were sent away.” Jaime’s eyes narrowed. “That _wasn’t _Connington?”

She shook her head. “That was Humfrey Wagstaff.”

“Humfrey—” Jaime paused, taking on this new information, before huffing out a laugh. He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, keeping her firm upon his lap. “Two former betrothals and an intended courtship by Renly Baratheon. I had no idea I was courting the most eligible maiden in all of the Stormlands.”

Brienne ducked her head; her fingers toying with one of the ties of his shirt. “_Hardly. _And it was three, actually.”

“Three! Do you–do you want to talk about them?” His fingertips brushed her temple. Brienne looked up at Jaime; his expression soft. “You don’t have to. But I’d _like _to hear about them. I want to know everything, Brienne. Everything about you. There’s nothing I don’t love. Nothing I can’t love.”

She settled against his good shoulder, not quite ready to look her love in the eye as she told him about her previous attempts at matrimony. She told him of the young boy who had died before they had ever met. Of Ronnet Connington: his bitter words, his crumpled rose. Of Humfrey Wagstaff, her _last chance, _and how she had fought for the right to be herself in her married life. Jaime did not ask, but she told him of the wager in the rebel camp over who would take her maidenhead. As she offered each piece of herself to Jaime, he held her tighter.

“I am sorry I did not tell you before_. _I just couldn’t bear it.” Brienne sighed. “It was just an endless series of humiliations.”

“There’s no need to apologise, Brienne.” His thumb traced tiny circles behind her ear; his mouth leaving a kiss upon the corner of her mouth. “We have been at the whim of our fathers for years; it’s not as if you cared for any of these men. I myself was once nearly promised to Lysa Tully.”

Brienne snorted. She had met Jon Arryn’s now-wife at his wedding, where Ned had also married her sister. Lysa was…_complicated. _She could not see her and Jaime as a good match. But for the sons and daughters of noble lords and ladies, the only good match was of the gold and land attached to their family name. But for them, that was no longer the case. They were the Queen and the Hand of Westeros, and they had fitted together perfectly since their first embrace.

Jaime embraced her now, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Thank the Gods we get to marry for love.”

She smiled. “I think, after our behaviour today, most will expect a wedding upon the horizon.”

“_Good. _I think about our wedding often. About our life together.” His lips pressed to her jaw. “And unlike the others, I intend to stand with you in front of a septon, bind our hands, and swear our love in front of the Gods and all Seven _bloody _Kingdoms. But let’s give it a day or two in case your father decides to duel me; I can barely lift my arm, let alone wield a sword.”

Brienne brushed the hair from Jaime’s face, left a kiss to his lips, and reluctantly removed herself from his lap. Jaime frowned. “Where are you going?”

“To take my own seat. You should eat and rest. We’ll kiss later.”

The corner of Jaime’s lips twitched. “Promise?”

“I swear it: on the old gods, and the new.”

Although the food the servants had brought had grown cold, they still gorged themselves on Jaime’s victory feast. It reminded Brienne of the evening they had shared after her coronation: worried about Jaime, she had removed his armour and forced him to eat lest he collapse whilst guarding her. With his shoulder stiff, she helped him cut his food and pour his wine. She stopped short of returning to his lap and feeding him from her fingertips: whilst the idea held some appeal, she doubted Jaime would find the nourishment he so desperately needed. So, they ate, and drank, in their own chairs whilst they discussed the joust. As they moved to the second carafe of wine, Jaime told her of his first meeting with Connington.

“People have always been rude, Jaime,” Brienne said, shrugging as she refilled their goblets. “I’m used to the comments; the looks. If I fought everyone who offered me an unkind word, there would be black eyes and broken bones from Sunspear to the Wall.”

“Like Wagstaff,” Jaime offered, grinning at the story of her third betrothal. His smile dimmed, then, and Brienne now felt as if she was talking to her Hand rather than her friend, her future husband. “Brienne, you are no longer a Lord’s daughter. You are the _Queen, _and these words can lead to actions. If people think you are weak, they will try for your throne.”

“So, what do you suggest I do, Jaime? Neither one of us wants me to rule in fear. I was merciful with Varner—”

“—yes, but I now fear your mercy has been seen as weakness. We’ll bring it to the Small Council next week, after the tournament. Personally, I’d love to beat them all in the melee but I fear that last lance has put me to bed for a few days.”

Brienne nodded. “It’s a shame I can’t enter as myself. Fight each and every one of them. That’s how I earned the respect of the rebel soldiers; showing them what I was capable of. But, as you’ve said, I doubt any would fight me if they knew who I truly was.”

“A shame you can’t enter the melee as a mystery knight.”

_Oh. Oh yes. _“I could?”

She rose to her feet, pacing in front of the small table. She _could. _She’d daydreamed of it these last weeks; entering as the Blue Knight and revealing herself the victor after all her competitors had been defeated. It was, after all, the perfect solution to Jaime’s worries: no one would know it was her; she’d be as safe as the other knights in the melee. She could win, too. Humiliate Connington as he had her. Defeat the others: shut down their crude words and harsh insults with the point of her sword or the swing of a morning star. She could _do _this. Her armour from the rebellion was generic enough not to be recognised, and Jaime no longer had any need of his squire. She could _do _this.

Brienne turned to Jaime. She was the Queen; she did not _need _his permission. But as her partner, and in the spirit of the life they were building together, she needed his support. This was the first instance where she thought she might have it. “Jaime?”

Her beloved grinned; a glint in his eye. “Beat them all.”

Today was the triumph of the Golden Lion. Tomorrow would see the victory of the Blue Knight.


	12. The Blue Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne competes in her first tournament; the young lovers progress in their physical relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge, HUGE thank you to everyone who read, commented, liked, reblogged Chapter 11. You've all been incredibly sweet. I so hope you enjoy Chapter 12; it is my favourite chapter so far and it's also the longest! Side note, this chapter marks an official rating change. HHH is now an 'E' rated story! Poor Ser Brynden...
> 
> Thank you to agirlnamedkeith and remuslovestonks for their support and enthusiasm for this chapter. You are both Christmas stars. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Jaime’s squire finished preparing Brienne – sorry, _the Blue Knight –_ for the melee. After the boy left, she turned to him. “Well? How do I look?”

He took in his beloved dressed for battle. She had been right: the armour was generic enough not to be recognised by rebel soldier and loyalist alike. The handful of dents from the Trident had been hammered out by a discreet blacksmith in the middle of the night. The sword hanging from the scabbard on her hip was one borrowed from the armoury; they could not trust that her opponents, up close, wouldn’t recognise her own. Thusly, the early hours of the morning had been spent sparring on their plateau so Brienne could grow accustomed to the feel of the blade. Like him, she adapted easily.

Like him, she cut quite the dashing figure. He beamed. “You look like the Warrior.”

A familiar hue covered Brienne’s cheeks. “You’re too kind.”

“It’s not a kindness if it’s the truth.” Jaime stepped forward; fingertips brushing the breastplate of her armour. “You know, you wore this the day we met. Strode into the throne room half woman-half god. In that moment, I thought you the Maiden.”

“And I thought you the Warrior,” Brienne blurted, head bowing as if embarrassed by her admission. “Golden hair, emerald eyes. I thought you’d come to save us all.” Her head then lifted, capturing his gaze with her soft expression. “And you did.”

“And I did.” Jaime raised his hand to stroke the curve of her cheek, marvelling at her slight intake of breath at his touch. They had come so far since that first embrace, yet every touch was a delight. “I may have saved the city, Brienne, but you saved me. And today, you’ll go out there and win this fight. You’ll be the Warrior, and I will be your Maiden.”

His head tilted upward, intending to steal a kiss from the Blue Knight’s lips. Unfortunately, outside, a horn sounded. _It was time_. Jaime’s hand fell from Brienne’s cheek as she busied herself with her sword, shield, and helmet. His squire ducked back inside, only for Jaime to wave the boy away. He could attend to the Blue Knight for a few moments more. Especially as there was one thing missing from her attire. Jaime took a handkerchief from his sleeve. Red silk, with a lion embroidered in gold thread. Brienne gasped when she saw it. Her chin faltered, wobbling, as his fingers tied it around her wrist.

“I wore yours, my love.” Jaime stared at his beloved; his wide smile matching the warmth of hers. “It’s only right that my lady knight wears mine.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m not a knight.”

“You are in every way that matters.” She had been brave in taking the throne. Just in her judgement over Varner. Brienne had defended the innocent of King’s Landing; defended _him _against those who thought him a kingslayer, oathbreaker. In all ways but one, Brienne _was _a knight. Jaime lifted her wrist to his lips and left a kiss just below his favour. He was honoured that such a woman would wear his colours. “Now go: _beat them all._”

With a firm nod, Brienne swept from the tent. Jaime waited, let the flurry of competitors pass him, before he, too, departed. His crimson cloak caught the dewy grass as he made his way to the dais where the Small Council had assembled to watch the final day of the Queen’s tournament. Late last night, Brienne had come down with a chill. Her personal maester, a healer from Volantis, had proclaimed the Queen required bed rest and broth (the healer herself requiring a tidy pouch of gold to make such a diagnosis). So, it would be Jaime, Hand pin pressed proudly to his breast, that would preside over the tournament.

Climbing the steps, Jaime noticed many an eye upon him. He had done well in the joust; earned Ser Brynden quite a bit of gold, apparently. That he’d ridden wearing the Queen’s favour was not lost on many of them. Several courtiers watched him; whispers exchanged behind cupped hands. The looks grew significantly colder as he took his place in the centre of the dais. The role of the Queen’s husband was a powerful one. That he had potentially pipped Stannis and Olenna’s relatives to the post no doubt infuriated both of them.

Jaime settled in Brienne’s seat, tapping his fingers against the arms as he waited for the melee to begin. Olenna took his former chair, eyeing him with distaste. “You’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“I am the Queen’s Hand, Lady Tyrell. It is my duty to take over when the Queen is unable or unwell.”

Olenna’s jaw tightened. “The chill came on so suddenly. A shame: the melee is Her Grace’s favourite event.”

“It is.” Jaime fidgeted in his chair. It would not do well for Brienne to be discovered before the melee had even begun. He leant over, as if to share confidence with the old bat rather than a mistruth. “Truly, I believe Brienne is upset that she cannot compete. Whilst I have no doubt she is unwell, I believe the true root of her sickness is disappointment.”

The sound of a throat clearing distracted Jaime from Olenna’s response. He glanced to his left, only to find Lord Selwyn Tarth standing behind them. Before the tournament, Jaime had only met the man once, at Brienne’s coronation. She had introduced them, giddy at seeing her father after so long. There had not been much opportunity for discussion, then: at the time, Jaime had been the sole Queensguard and was responsible for Brienne’s safety; there was little opportunity to indulge in frivolity. But now so many things had changed. He was Brienne’s Hand. He was to be her husband. Even if the man behind him did not yet know it.

Lord Tarth took the empty seat on Jaime’s left. He was a large man: tall frame, protruding stomach, blonde hair such a similar shade to his daughter’s. He took one look at Jaime and huffed through his nostrils. “Lord Lannister.”

“Lord Tarth.”

“I hear my daughter is unwell.”

“She is, my Lord. Do not fear: the healer believes a few days of bed rest will cure what ails her.”

Lord Tarth wore a scowl so similar to his daughter’s that Jaime almost laughed. That would have been a mistake. “I am sure you are right; my daughter is strong, wilful. She will not let the sickness take her for any longer than it has to. Such a strong, young woman, our Queen. It is a shame, however, that her heart is less so.”

Jaime’s brows drew together. “My Lord?”

Familiar blue eyes stared back, although they carried none of Brienne’s warmth. “How old are you, Ser Jaime?”

“Twenty, my Lord. I celebrated my nameday some moons ago.”

“Twenty.” The older man appraised Jaime in great detail: his golden hair; his sharp green eyes; the jut of his jaw. Whatever conclusions he drew, they did not please him. That scowl remained firmly fixed upon his features. “And knighted at how old?”

“Sixteen.”

“And how many bastards have you sired?”

Jaime spluttered. On his right, Olenna cackled and called for a servant to bring them some wine. No doubt the old bat was _relishing _his inquisition at the hands of Brienne’s father. _Fuck. _They had been too careless the day before: their soft expressions as Brienne had tied her favour around his wrist; her fine, familiar blush as he had crowned her his Queen of Love and Beauty. In those moments, it had been as if they were the only souls in the world. But they had not been, and now it came back to bite them both. Well, _him. _His beloved was marching onto the muddy field right now.

If the sight of him had given Brienne the strength to address Ser Ronnet the day before, then seeing Brienne’s familiar armour provided the same for him. He took a sip from his cup and addressed his future father-in-law. “No bastards, my Lord.”

“That you know of?”

“No, my Lord. I have sired no children. I have laid with one woman, one night, long before I took my vows as a Kingsguard.” _Believe me, I would have known had she bore my child. _“There has been no one since.”

Lord Tarth did not seem convinced. “It has been some time since you were dismissed from the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime. You mean to tell me no one in Court has attracted your fancy?”

“No, my Lord. Your daughter keeps me rather busy.” Jaime enjoyed the white spots that appeared on Lord Selwyn’s ruddy face. He took another drink from his cup. “Reuniting the Kingdoms after such a lengthy period of war and fear occupy us both a great deal.”

Before Lord Tarth could formulate a response, a horn sounded. _Finally, _the melee was about to begin. Jaime turned his head from Brienne’s father towards the competitors, lined up to pay their respects to the Crown. Brienne, as one of the tallest, was at the back. Scanning the field, Jaime recognised a handful of sigils emblazoned on shields and armour. Two knights down from Brienne was his childhood friend, Addam Marbrand. One of Olenna’s grandsons stood just to the right of her. Connington had come back for more; the weight of the winner’s purse too great to indulge an injured shoulder. The rest of his friends were there, too. All knights of the realm; all less deserving than the woman in their midst. There was no justice in that.

The herald gestured for Jaime to make his opening remarks. To think, only a handful of years before he had competed in tournaments like these. Now he was the Queen’s Hand; the future Prince Consort. Knights older than he looked to him in awe.

“May you fight bravely, may you fight true, in the honour of our Queen, Brienne of Tarth, first of her name. Long may she reign.”

“LONG MAY SHE REIGN!”

Jaime could not see Brienne’s eyes through the slit in her helm, but he liked to think she was staring back at him. He did not mouth the words, as he had at her coronation, but he thought them all the same. _Long may you reign. _

\--

There was no time to enjoy the crowds cheering her name. The herald sounded the horn, and the melee began.

Fifty-nine men stood between Brienne of Tarth and victory. She had listened intently to the list of competitors: her former betrothed was on that list, as was two of the men who had wagered her maidenhead in the rebel camp. More than a few she had fought with, side-by-side, at the Trident. She knew how they fought: which joints were weaker; which moves they preferred. An easy victory, but she could not risk them recognising her style. After all she had risked to enter the tournament as a mystery knight, she would not throw it all away for a comfortable defeat.

Of course, there was nothing comfortable about the melee.

Her first challenger swung an axe at her breastplate. He knocked her backwards, but she scrambled to her feet and aimed her blade at his left pauldron. She then caught him upon the helm and sent him tumbling to the dirt. Another bashed their shield, bearing a Stormlands sigil, against her head. Brienne was momentarily dazed before she threw her entire weight into knocking him down. Grunts and cries filled the air, swallowed by the cheer and applause from the stands. No heroes had yet emerged for the crowd to root for: there were still too many on the field. Brienne fought her third opponent; his blade catching her across the thigh. She bit the inside of her mouth, swallowing her cries, and charged with her sword. A flurry of thrusts, and jabs, and he, too, went down.

And then there he was. Ronnet Connington.

It was not enough that he had humiliated her as a girl. It was not enough that he had proven every word of Septa Roelle’s correct. But she was now his _Queen. _He would respect her, and her station. Brienne drove her sword against his legs, knocking them out from underneath him. _You should kneel before your Queen, _she thought, as he matched his blade with hers before she knocked the steel out of his hand. Her shield smacked his shoulder, where her beloved had injured him only the day before. He fell. Connington pulled at his helmet, tossing it aside; his mouth open as if to spit a curse. She had heard enough from Ronnet Connington for one lifetime.

Her boot connected with his cock, and Brienne went on to opponent number five.

Knight number five bore a Westerlands sigil on his shield, and Brienne recognised parts of his fighting style. A move here or there was so reminiscent of Jaime that, for a single moment, she wondered whether her beloved had joined the fray. A glance towards the dais showed the Hand to the Queen just where he should be. _Not Jaime, then. _But perhaps he had similar weaknesses. Jaime was a gifted swordsman, but could be too cocky in his approach. She feinted once or twice, allowed herself to show vulnerability, and when the Westerlands knight took his opening, she tackled him to the ground. With the wind knocked out of him, and a small dagger pressed to his throat, he was defeated.

His glove tapped the muddy ground. “I yield.”

After number five left the field, Brienne continued onto number six. A morning star swung at her hip; a shield struck her across the stomach. But she got up every _single _time. Hours passed, and the competitors thinned. Strategies were played: some knights clearly saw her as a threat and tried to attack in tandem. They were defeated just like all the rest. These men fought for gold, for the prominence of victory at the new Queen’s tournament. All her life, Brienne had fought to prove herself. She had fought in battles that songs would be sung of, and she had fought off three assassins in her own bedchambers. They could not fight against her desperation; her _need _outweighing their want.

Soon enough, sooner than Brienne thought possible, her last competitor gave in. “I yield.”

She’d won. She’d won the melee.

Brienne rose to her feet; the noise of the crowd rushing to her ears. She had barely heard a word these last few hours: lost in the sound of steel-on-steel; the smell of blood and sweat and piss. She stared into the crowd of the lowborn, her people, who were screaming _Ser Blue _at the top of their lungs. Her Court were applauding, too; money changing hands as a mystery knight defeated those with better odds. And then, upon the dais, sat her Council. Stannis, Olenna, and Ser Gerold were applauding her victory. Her father also applauded, but his lips were pressed in a firm line. _He knew._ He’d seen her; recognised her approach, her stance. He’d known but he hadn’t stopped her. She bowed her head to him. _Thank you, Father. _

“Come, Ser Blue,” the herald said, taking Brienne’s steel-clad arm. “The Queen’s Hand wishes to reward you.”

It felt odd to be escorted to the dais in such fashion. Her Council had taken their seats; Jaime sitting where she had previously. He was lost in discussion with Ser Brynden, until the other man suddenly departed. So, the herald and Brienne stood, waiting for Ser Jaime, Hand to the Queen, to reward her. His proud smile, the love in his eyes, was all the reward she needed.

“My Lord Hand, may I present the champion of the Queen’s melee: Ser Blue, a mystery knight.”

The crowds cheered. She had won their hearts upon the field. Brienne could scarcely take it all in. She barely acknowledged that Jaime had said something to her, until the herald caught her wandering attention. “Ser Blue, the Lord Hand has asked you a question.”

She turned to Jaime. His smile was wide, mischievous; a glint in his green eyes. _What are you up to? _Then he stood, straightening the line of his doublet, as he addressed her, the Court, and the crowds. “Remove your helmet, Ser Blue. You should enjoy your victory.” And then, her love mouthed two words: _trust me. _

And she did. Wholly, truly. There was no jest to be found, here; no humiliation lurking around the corner. Jaime wanted her to enjoy her victory, as any other knight would. Not that she was, of course. Nevertheless, Brienne removed her helmet. She dragged a hand through damp blonde hair; her eyes moving nervously over the crowd. There was stunned silence. No one had expected their Queen to be underneath the helm; to have fought off fifty-nine knights and claim victory. But then someone cheered (many years later, Tyrion would admit it was he) and their shouts and cheers began anew. She waved to her people. She waved to her Court. She nodded at Jaime, who responded in kind.

“Your Grace, you fought with great bravery today. As you did at the Trident, and in the many battles that brought peace to Westeros once more.” The sound of the crowd was almost deafening. “Would you like your winner’s purse?”

Brienne laughed, practically spluttered. She had forgotten her winnings. “Thank you, Ser Jaime, but I think the coin should go to the taverns. Let my people celebrate!”

Like they had the day before, her people cheered. She then looked towards the herald, expecting a similar wreath in his hands to the one Jaime had placed upon her head only the day before. But there was nothing. Instead, Ser Brynden reappeared along with his fellow brothers of the Queensguard. As did several of her competitors from the melee, and men she had seen joust the previous day. They formed a circle around her; each and every one dropping to their knees. Staring into their faces, Brienne realised she had fought with all these men. She would have died with all these men.

Upon the dais, Jaime cleared his throat. “Your Grace, whilst it’s traditional for the victor to appoint their Queen of Love and Beauty, there is something we feel must be done instead.”

Ser Brynden rose to his feet. He stood in front of her; hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. He spoke softly, so only she and the men surrounding them could hear. “I want you to know that we had discussed this, Ned and I. After we won, I was going to do this whether Robert liked it or not. But then you were made Queen. It wasn’t until I saw you today, until the lad talked to me, that I realised how much you deserve this honour, despite the crown you wear now.” He swallowed. “Please kneel, Your Grace.”

Brienne’s eyes darted towards Jaime. _Trust me. _And so, she did.

She knelt in front of Ser Brynden, surrounded by her Queensguard; her fellow soldiers. She heard the sound of his sword being unsheathed. And then his blade pressed to her right shoulder. She gasped; eyes squeezing shut. _Seven say this is not a dream. Seven say this is really happening. _

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” His sword laid upon her left. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” Ser Brynden returned his sword to her right. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

A tear fell from her eye and cut a path through the mud and grime covering her cheek. She had heard those words before; had memorised them by the time she was seven. _The Knight’s Vow. Oh_, how she had dreamt of a legendary knight standing over her, seeing something in her worthy of being a knight of the realm. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, let his sword linger against her shoulder for a single moment before he returned it to his scabbard. All Brienne could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the rapid beat of her heart. And then—

“Arise, _Ser_ Brienne of Tarth. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Brienne stood. She did not know what to say, could not express the joy bubbling inside of her. She simply offered her hand to Ser Brynden, who then pulled her into an embrace. “Thank you, Brynden.”

“No need, Brienne. You deserve this.”

She clapped his shoulder and pulled away. The crowd had fallen into a hushed silence as she was knighted, but now they roared even louder than before. Their Warrior Queen, now a knight of the realm. Her circle of knights and comrades got to their feet, applauding her knighthood. Her Court clapped and cheered. Brienne quickly sought out the dais where her friends and family looked on. Lord Stannis gave polite applause; no doubt wondering how many other young ladies would seek knighthoods (hopefully plenty). Olenna was dabbing at the corners of her eyes discreetly. Her father had an arm around Ser Gerold; both men cheering for her. And Jaime, her Jaime, was the loudest of all.

Queen Brienne of Tarth, first of her name. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

\--

“To Her Grace: A knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Jaime grinned as he passed a gathering of lords and ladies toasting Brienne, her knighthood, and her nameday. The crowds had cheered valiantly for his beloved until she had taken her leave from the field, no doubt to find a maester, a stiff drink, and a hot bath. Jaime, too, had departed quickly. The vultures had begun to circle, and he was loathed to invite speculation over his relationship with Brienne when the Court should be celebrating her victory, and that alone. So, he fled to his Tower, changed into something more comfortable, and made the familiar journey to Brienne’s bedchambers.

Some short distance from her door, he crossed paths with Lord Tarth. Halfway through the melee, recognition had crossed the older man’s face. He had stared intently at Jaime but he had not broken; not wanting to risk Brienne being dragged from the field like an unruly child. Which was exactly what Ser Brynden had threatened to do, until he realised it would undermine Brienne’s rule even more. Thankfully, all had worked out as it should. Even if relations were still icy between him and his future father-in-law.

He stared at Jaime, now; gaze flickering between the path behind him, and the path in front. “My Lord Hand.”

“Lord Tarth.” It was clear where he intended to go. Jaime supposed there was no use in hiding his destination. “I am off to see your daughter.” He should probably make it clear that nothing untoward would happen when he entered her bedchambers. “I wish to celebrate her success in the melee. Such an impressive victory for her first tourney.”

Lord Tarth nodded. “Quite. But, then, my Brienne has always been impressive.” His mouth fumbled, as if searching for a particular set of words. “My little girl. _A knight._”

“No one deserves it more.”

Staring out into that field, seeing her cut down opponents who had earned that _Ser _by doing nothing more than having a cock, Jaime realised the truth of that. So what if no woman had ever been knighted before? This was a time of new beginnings. He could have done it himself, of course. Any knight could make another knight. But it would mean more coming from Ser Brynden: they’d fought together, bled together. It needed to be _him. _

Lord Tarth, however, acted like it was Jaime who had placed the sword upon his girl’s shoulders. He clapped his meaty hand upon Jaime’s and squeezed. “I should, perhaps, apologise to you, Ser Jaime. My comments earlier—”

“—are perfectly understandable considering the cads and cunts who have abused your daughter’s heart.” Jaime paused, wondering whether he should admit his intentions. If there was any a time to do so, it would be now. “I love your daughter, my Lord. I intend to make her my wife. I hope, when the time comes, I shall have your blessing.”

“My daughter is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser. You do not need my permission, or indeed my blessing.” But Lord Tarth smiled all the same. “If my daughter thinks you worthy, then you have my support.”

“Thank you.”

Lord Tarth patted Jaime’s shoulder once again, before he left him to continue his journey to Brienne’s bedchambers. As he grew close, the noise from the celebrations faded. Everything faded until the world was that single door, and his beloved lying beyond. A single guard stood outside. Ser Jason had been the first to kneel when Brienne had been knighted and the last to rise. He nodded at Ser Jaime, smiled and rapped twice upon the door. “Your Grace; Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“_Allow him in._”

The door to Brienne’s bedchambers swung open, and Jaime stepped inside. Immediately he was struck by the heat of the room; the steam and scented oils lingering in the air. Lit candles covered every surface; in the centre stood a copper tub. Brienne lay in the water: hair slick; the tops of her breasts visible above the waterline. Jaime swallowed; the front of his breeches tightening at the sight of his beloved warm and wet.

She caught his eye and Jaime immediately turned heel, staring at the wall. “Forgive me, Brienne. I didn’t realise—”

“I wouldn’t have let you in if I did not wish for you to see.” A splash of water. He looked over his right shoulder; Brienne was peering over the edge of the copper tub. She extended a long, wet arm and pointed towards a nearby table. “Could you bring me the towel?”

Nodding, Jaime acquiesced and made his way over to the tub. His tongue wet his top lip as more and more of Brienne was revealed to him. Long, muscular legs. Taut stomach. Small breasts; her nipples pink and erect. Her pale skin was marred with bruises and cuts; a multitude of colours spanning her shoulder, her hip. Rather than hand Brienne the towel, he dropped to his knees beside the bath and ran a hand through her damp hair; his thumb brushing the welt on her cheek. 

“Has the Healer been to see you yet?”

She nodded. “A short time ago. She gave me some salves for the worst of the bruising; recommended bed rest for a day or two. It’s nothing more than I have suffered before.”

Brienne talked of the war, he knew, but he couldn’t help recall her sitting bloody and bruised after the assassins had tried to take her life. It had been a risk letting her compete in the melee, he knew, but Brienne was strong. The Warrior Queen. Perhaps he would feel differently if his earlier objections had proved founded, but right now his beloved was safe, and happy, and he wanted to celebrate her well-deserved victory. “I saw Connington’s face when you revealed yourself. What’s more, I saw the faces of the men he japed with. I doubt they’ll be so cavalier in future.”

“_Good._” Brienne’s teeth fumbled with her bottom lip. Jaime’s cock twitched. “Thank you for today. For supporting me. For…for knighting me.”

“Did I do that? For I am sure it was Ser Brynden Tully, the legendary _Blackfish, _who knighted you.” Jaime took her hand from where it clutched the edge of the tub. He pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. “Do not think, for one second, that it was an act of courtship. It was an act of respect. I simply asked Ser Brynden whether he had ever considered it. Once he had stopped yelling at me for letting you compete, he was quite amenable.”

They shared a laugh. Brienne then leaned back, wriggling in the water as the steam seeped into her bones. Jaime tried to be respectful. He tried to be courteous. But his gaze wandered. He pictured what it would be like to swirl his tongue around a pink nipple; feel it grow stiff between his lips. He stared at the thatch of hair between her legs and imagined pressing his mouth _just _there. He’d seen wenches do it after tournaments; pleasure victorious knights with their hands, their mouths.

Brienne’s fingers carded through his hair. His gaze was pulled back to her; her eyes dark storm clouds. “The healer did suggest an alternative treatment that might aid my healing.”

“Oh?”

“She–um–_she_ suggested that the lips of a good knight could provide deeper healing properties than even the most dedicated salve.” Her face flushed; chest heaving as she said the next words. “Whilst I am a good knight—” Jaime grinned. “—there are certain places I cannot reach with my lips.”

He gripped the edge of the tub; his body tightening in anticipation. _Gods, _was Brienne truly suggesting what he _thought _she was suggesting? _Fuck. _“I am at your service, _Ser_ Brienne. And if this will truly aid your healing…” He kissed her. A soft expression of love against her mouth. He laid gentle kisses upon her lips, the welt on her cheek, the bump on her forehead, and the bruise he had left in their passions the day before. “Is this helping, Brienne?”

“_Yes. _I feel better already.”

“Then let’s go to the bed, where I can administer a more dedicated form of treatment.”

Rising, he offered Brienne the towel and turned his back, allowing her a modicum of privacy and some time to change her mind if need be. In the moons since their courtship began, they had yet to step over this barrier of intimacy. To touch Brienne’s bare skin, to kiss and tease, that was a line it would be difficult to step back from. Jaime stood, rooted to the spot, whilst he waited for Brienne to dry herself. When she reappeared in his eye line, she was wearing a silk robe that left little to the imagination.

“A nameday gift from House Martell. Do you like it?”

His teeth sunk into his bottom lip. _Gods, _there was so much of her. So many places to kiss. So many places to touch. “You look...I have nothing courteous to say.”

  
“Then say something crude.”

His arm slipped around her waist; he could feel the heat of her skin through the material. “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now. I’d drag you to a sept this second if it meant I could spend tonight inside you.” Brienne sucked in a breath. “But I will happily settle for kissing you all over until Ser Brynden drags me out by the ear.”

Brienne’s blue eyes were nothing more than circles of black. “Join me on the bed.”

They walked the few paces to Brienne’s bed; to the bed they would one day share as husband and wife. She then lay spread across the sheets like an offering to the Gods. Jaime made quick work of his boots and tunic; he tugged off his undershirt and discarded that, too. But he kept his breeches, as tight as they were, on. Tonight was all about Brienne. Tomorrow could be theirs. Grinning, he joined her atop the bed. Jaime stroked her hair whilst he coaxed her lips open; kissing her as he had in the tub. He followed the same path as before: her cheek, the bump on her head, his mark on her throat. His thumb made delicate circles on her collarbone whilst he kissed the edge of the bruising around her shoulder.

“How does that feel?” he asked, moving aside the robe to place more kisses against her skin. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes. _Yes, _Jaime.”

“_Good_.” He returned to her lips to steal another kiss. “Good.”

The breastplate of Brienne’s armour had done well to prevent injury, but there were still a few blemishes on her porcelain skin. Jaime touched these marks with care as his hands parted the robe over her breasts. He took one in hand; Brienne’s spine curving under his ministrations. Her moan as his thumb circled her nipple went straight to his cock. _Fuck. _At this rate, he would come in his breeches. _Fuck it. _He bent his head and took her nipple between his lips. A swirl of his tongue, and then he sucked until he felt the bud harden. A firm hand sunk into his hair.

“Jaime. Oh, _oh._”

He repeated the same motion with the other breast. Then, he continued his path downwards. A series of kisses to her bruised hip. A delicate touch to the welt on her stomach. There was a bump on her shin, and he kissed that, too. Finally, there was a cut on her upper thigh where some bastard had caught her during the melee. His lips lingered there. Jaime could smell her arousal. With her legs spread wide, Jaime shouldered between them, he could see her damp curls and wet cunt.

He returned to Brienne’s lips and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “_There. _I believe that should aid you.” A whimper fell from his beloved’s lips. He smirked. “Unless there’s somewhere _else _you’d like me to kiss?”

“You–you would do that?”

“Let me taste you.” He stroked her hair. “Let me give you pleasure, Brienne.”

Her head jerked her assent, and Jaime moved once more between Brienne’s legs. He kissed her inner thigh first, slowly moving upward to the thatch of hair above her cunt. He placed a kiss there, enjoying her tremble at the sensation. One of her hands begun to stroke his hair, encouraging him with grips and tugs. He needed no encouragement. Jaime first pressed his lips to her clit. Then, further, towards her entrance. She was wet, _so wet. _He groaned against her skin.

“_Brienne._”

He focussed his ministrations on her clit. Small circles with the tip of his tongue as it swelled against his mouth. Her legs shook; her body taut as Jaime built her to orgasm. Brienne’s grip in his hair tightened the bolder his strokes became. Gently, not wanting to hurt her, Jaime pressed the tip of his finger inside Brienne. She let out a low, guttural moan that only grew in volume as Jaime sucked her clit between his lips. He felt the moment she came; a juddering climax against his mouth.

As the waves of pleasure rolled through Brienne, Jaime left lingering kisses over her hips, her stomach, her breasts, until he was once again kissing her lips. He wrapped her in his arms; his head nestled in the crook of her neck. He wanted Brienne to be under no illusions how much she was loved, how much giving her pleasure had given _him _the same.

And they could do this for the rest of their lives. 


	13. Five Proposals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne make an important announcement; things continue to get steamy in the Red Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure whether I would be able to get this up before Christmas, but here we are! A huge thank you to agirlnamedkeith/sameboots and remuslovestonks for their constant support, and to angel-deux-writes for listening to my editing rants today. The love for Chapter 12 was *beyond* incredible: I hope you all enjoy Chapter 13!

After the euphoria of her nameday tournament came the monotony of bed rest. Brienne wasn’t used to lying on her back, _healing, _but her father and the maester were quite insistent. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad had she enjoyed her preferred company; Jaime’s presence by her bedside, his easy smile and soft lips. But, as Brienne healed, her Hand had been consumed by the business of state. With ravens from Winterfell, Dragonstone, and the Reach, Jaime had been unable to visit her. He’d sent notes, of course. Flowers and well-wishes. But two days apart felt like _years _when, for so long, they had been in each other’s presence daily.

Thankfully, this morning she was well enough to return to her duties. Thankfully, Jaime was already at her door.

“Your Grace?” Ser Petyr entered her chambers. Brienne finished her cup of water and rose to receive visitors. _Well, _one visitor. “Lord Lannister is here to see you.”

_And there he was. _Ser Petyr disappeared from view, leaving the two of them alone. Her beloved stood, casually, in the doorway; one hand running through the strands she had so eagerly stroked and gripped and _tugged_. Her cheeks grew red as she took in his mouth; his skilful lips and tongue. Those fingers she knew from swordplay, who had drawn circles on her inner thighs and _entered _her. Heat pooled low in her belly as her eyes swept over his breeches. He’d been hard that night. Jaime hadn’t let her touch him; _tonight is about you, _he’d said_. _

But _tonight _had passed, and _today_ Brienne was determined to have him.

“Look who’s up,” Jaime greeted. Brienne did not respond. Instead, she grabbed a handful of his tunic and pulled him close; her lips covering his in an instant. When she eased away, Jaime wore the strangest expression upon his face. His eyes were soft; his smile hazy. “Someone’s feeling better. Remember when we thought a hug was the best way to greet each other?”

Brienne laughed. All of that – their burgeoning friendship, their burning need for casual intimacy – felt like a lifetime ago. Now, Brienne could barely stand the thought of not having Jaime’s skin against hers. “I’m sure we’ll find other ways, in time.” She swallowed; her fingertips toying with the buttons of his tunic, lest she card them through Jaime’s hair instead. “I’ve missed you. I’ve thought of nothing more than…_that day_.”

“Do you mean the melee, the knighthood, or the—” Jaime trailed off, raising his eyebrows high. He then dropped his gaze to her cunt; his tongue sweeping across his top lip. Brienne stifled a whimper. “I’ve thought of nothing else, either. Whilst I’m sure Ser Brynden will hang me if I assist you in entering another melee, I’d be more than happy to replicate _other _events. If you wish it.”

Her head bounced. “I do. Wish it, I mean.”

“Good.” Jaime rose on his toes; his lips brushing against hers. “I long for nothing more than to make you happy, Brienne. In many, _many _ways.”

She cradled his jaw; the pair exchanging soft kisses between words. “I long for that, too, Jaime.” She nuzzled his cheek with her nose. “You deserve so much happiness. I want to make you as happy as you make me.”

“You already do.” His fingers held her chin, holding her gaze with his. “Never believe otherwise. But, for now, we must be _miserable _in your Small Council chambers. Your nameday has passed, so we must return to running the Seven Kingdoms.” Jaime offered his arm. “Ser?”

Beaming, Brienne readily took Jaime’s arm. Together they left her bedchambers and headed to the first Small Council meeting since her nameday tournament. So much had happened since the last: both here, and in Westeros. She looked forward to hearing about the goings-on in the North; the latest update on the last of the Targaryens at Dragonstone. More so, she looked forward to sweeping into the chambers now a woman of nineteen; the first female knight of Westeros. Ser Jaime’s _lover. _Even the looks and whispers from her courtiers could not shatter the spell of happiness she had fallen under.

Her beloved, however, seemed to stand underneath a storm cloud. Jaime glared at a lord from the Vale; the man quickly scurrying into the Red Keep gardens. “I had thought your win at the melee would have drawn a line under these hateful words.”

They passed two ladies from the Westerlands who bowed as their Queen and her Hand approached, before continuing their hushed conversation. Brienne, however, heard enough to ascertain the _real _reason for the glances and murmurs. “Whilst my win secured their fealty, our actions towards each other have engaged the gossip mongers. They’re talking about _us, _Jaime.”

“_Oh._” The clouds parted. The thin line of Jaime’s mouth curved into an eager grin. “The Court wish to know when I intend to make you my wife.”

“It seems so.” Her courtiers were not the only ones. “You know, Jaime, we did say we would discuss our future after the tournament.”

“Believe me, Brienne, I had not forgotten.” Jaime paused their procession. He dropped her arm in favour of holding both her hands in his. His eyes held hers, too, as if she would look anywhere else in this moment. “Your tournament is over. You won the melee. You won my heart, although you did that some considerable time ago. I’ve never been reticent about my intentions: I want you to be my wife. Be my wife, Brienne. _Marry me._”

“Yes.”

And just like that, Brienne of Tarth, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was betrothed. She celebrated her engagement by kissing Jaime; hands cradling his face and lips meeting in a chaste, yet firm kiss. A few courtiers hovered nearby; no doubt this would set tongues wagging. But Brienne did not care for their opinions on this matter. She was betrothed, for the final time, to the man she loved most ardently. And she would kiss him in the middle of the Red Keep if she so wished. And, judging by the arm sliding around her waist, he _very _much did, too.

Leaving a kiss to the corner of her mouth, Jaime pulled away. He clasped her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles, and continued to hold it as their procession renewed. “Well, it seems we shall have some new business to bring before the Council.”

“So it seems.”

Brienne tried to restrain herself. Attempted to act aloof, stately. But, in truth, she was so happy she could _burst. _Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears. Her palm felt clammy, yet Jaime clung to it anyway. She wanted to tell every courtier passing by that _Ser Jaime Lannister has asked me to marry him. _Brienne had never, _ever _thought that this was possible. To love someone as much as she loved Jaime; to have that love matched in return. And now they were to wed. After all they had suffered, this seemed like a reward from the Gods.

All they had to do now was inform the Council. They arrived at the chambers in good time; Jaime sadly dropping her hand as they entered. They had agreed to wait until the end of the meeting to announce their betrothal: important matters were on the docket, and Jaime had – quite rightly – stated that they would discuss nothing else if they led with their engagement. So, they entered separately; sat in their normal seats. As if it was just a normal day. Jaime handed out agendas as if a smile wasn’t desperate to break through. Brienne read the agenda as if she wasn’t desperate to kiss him.

_Concentrate Brienne. _She looked at the parchment in front of her. There was to be another update on Dragonstone. Estimated projections for the Crown’s finances after the tournament. A note about trouble up North caught her eye. It seemed the Wildlings had grown bold after the recent war, and a handful had attacked the brothers of the Night’s Watch whilst the new Lord of Winterfell was visiting. Ned’s greatsword Ice was damaged in the altercation. Brienne sighed. She had admired that blade on more than one occasion. Nothing finer in this world than Valyrian steel. Such a shame.

Beside her, Jaime straightened his papers. “Let us begin with Ser—” He did not finish his sentence. Brienne looked to him, only to find Jaime already staring back. He widened his eyes, and she gave the smallest of nods. They had spent so much time restraining themselves; abiding by propriety. Well, _no longer. _Grinning, Jaime addressed the Council. “Earlier today, the Queen was made an offer of marriage. By me.”

A silence fell over the Council chambers. Before Jaime could explain further, Olenna turned to Brienne and clutched her hands. “Your Grace, I _implore _you to consider the hand of my grandson, Willas, instead. He is a good man who will treat you very well.”

Brienne had not been expecting _that. _Nevertheless, she had already made up her mind about her future husband, and he sat beside her. But, before she could politely turn down her Master of Coin, her Master of Law jumped on the bandwagon. “Your _grandson _is as boring as he is kind. No, _no_, Your Grace, I beg of you to consider a betrothal with my brother, Renly. He is quite enamoured with you, and I know you’ve held affections for him since you were a girl. Just think: the position of the Stormlands would never have been stronger.”

Olenna snorted. “They’ll need to produce an heir for that, and I highly doubt your brother is capable of such things_. _No, Willas will make the perfect Prince Consort. He is kind, and gentle, and comes from a respectable family.”

“At least House Lannister _fought _for the rebels, even if it was at the end,” Jaime interjected; emerald eyes glinting at the affront to his character, and his family. “How many loyalists do you still count among your bannermen, Olenna?”

“You see here, _boy—”_

“—I am _not _a boy; I am the Hand to the Queen and—”

“What about Edmure?” Ser Brynden said, quietly, as Olenna and Jaime continued to throw barbs at each other. “If we’re throwing relatives at you, Your Grace, I might as well throw in my nephew.”

“—Renly has good character, and as Robert’s brother—”

“—Robert is _dead, _Stannis!” Jaime called out.

Surprisingly, Olenna backed his position. “House Baratheon has no claim to this throne. Perhaps, if you had fought with your brother, your house might have held it.”

“I would have, had your _son _not kept us in a _siege _for a _year_!”

As three members of her Council continued to argue, Ser Gerold stood and poured himself a cup of water. He filled another for Brienne, who took it gratefully. This was _not _how she had envisioned imparting news of her and Jaime’s betrothal. Ser Gerold patted her on the shoulder. “May I throw in my silver stag?”

“You might as well. I am now up to _four _offers of marriage this morning alone. Why not make it five?”

Ser Gerold chuckled. “Well, Lord Estermont had a word with your father and me during the tournament. He proposed a match between you and his son, Aemon. I told him to present it, but that I believe you planned to take another.”

Brienne nodded, smiled. She _did _plan to take another. He was as honourable as he was fierce; as kind as he was sharp. Brienne watched him lecture Stannis, only faltering when he realised she was staring. His eyes softened; the corners of his mouth picking up into a smile. “What?”

“I love you. And I’m going to marry you.” Brienne beamed. She then turned her attention towards her Council. “This is my decision, and mine alone. Not yours, not my father’s. Ser Jaime is my dearest friend, my closest confidant, and the man I wish to be my husband. So, as my Small Council, all I need from you is an answer to this: how do we plan a royal wedding?”

\--

As Jaime and Brienne left the Small Council chambers, he realised that today had been one of the best days of his life. After all, it was not every day that the woman you loved agreed to marry you. The moment had been perfect, too_. _Small, subtle; _theirs, _and theirs alone. There had been no dithering on Brienne’s part when he’d asked, either. No second-guessing their positions; no weighing other options. She loved him with her whole heart and could not fathom a better thought than being his wife. The same held true for him: being her husband, earning her love, was the highest honour he could have ever received.

A great shame it was, then, that he had to wait _five moons _to be able to truly call her his_. _

At first, he had thought Olenna’s timeline was created just to spite him; to give House Tyrell space to weasel their heir into Brienne’s good graces. But, as the only married highborn at the table, she was also the only one who had a clear idea of just _how_ _much _went into planning a wedding. Announcements would need to be sent; invitations to follow. They would need to raise funds as Brienne was adamant that much of the Crown’s coppers were to be used to rebuild King’s Landing rather than to pay for her wedding. Gifts would have to be procured; guests would have to travel; security issues would need to be arranged.

In truth, perhaps five moons was cutting it rather close. Not that Jaime would _dream _of suggesting an extended engagement. Five moons was just about bearable. Smiling, Jaime pressed a kiss to his beloved’s cheek. “It’ll go by quickly.”

“I hope so. It’s strange: with my previous betrothals, I always dreaded the intended date of my wedding. Now…now all I wish is for it to be tomorrow, or even today.”

Jaime chuckled. “We could elope, you know. Find a sept; Seven Hells, we could bring the septon here!”

Rather than laugh at his eagerness, a shadow crossed Brienne’s face. He knew that storm; had sailed the rough seas of Brienne’s doubt before. He would not let his betrothed drown in those waters. So, Jaime cradled her jaw and pressed his forehead to hers. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“We–we could have a small wedding. Perhaps it would be best. Fewer people watching us.”

“I understand, but Brienne, I want to invite the whole Court; every lord and lady from Sunspear to the Wall. _Hells, _let’s even invite the Wildlings. Let them watch their Queen marry for love. Let them see Tywin Lannister’s son stand in the Sept of Baelor and swear himself to you: not for land, not for money, but for the life we can build together. I intend to marry only once, Brienne. I intend it to be a glorious celebration.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.” He reached up and planted his lips to her temple. “But we have plenty of time to work out the details. For now, let’s not think of the ceremony. Let’s think of the reception, when we’re already wed.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Think of our wedding night, and how it will feel for me to take you for the first time.” 

Brienne blushed. Jaime groaned; longing to press his mouth to every inch of her, to feel that warm skin underneath his lips. His mouth wanted more than the apples of her cheeks, however; more than the line of her jaw. Jaime lingered on the memory of that night. Retreating to his room with a stiff cock and the _taste _of her on his lips had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Jaime was sincerely grateful that their time could now be measured: it was moons, weeks, days, _hours _until he could never leave her side. Until he could hold her, be inside her, and wake up beside her. _Five moons to go. _

Still_, _there were some things they could do now they were officially betrothed.

With Ser Petyr waiting at the end of the corridor, Jaime took the opportunity to yank the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms into a narrow alcove. He pushed Brienne up against the stonework, slid his hand along her neck, and planted his lips on hers. They had engaged in passionate kisses in private rooms and secret spaces but never out in the open like this. Any courtier or servant walking by could see Brienne’s hands fist the front of his tunic; his tongue slip inside her mouth. Jaime left a trail of kisses along her exposed throat. Her fingernails dug into the material covering his shoulders.

“_Jaime._”

His teeth grazed her collarbone. “_Mine._”

“We–we’re in the middle of the Red Keep–oh, _Jaime, _and the things I want to do to you cannot be done in public.” He lifted his head and stared at his beloved, his betrothed. Her blue eyes shifted to the tightening fabric of his breeches. “I told you that I want to make you happy. Jaime, I want to reciprocate.”

“I will not deny you anything,” he said, gulping at the thought of what Brienne wanted. “Especially _that._”

Jaime peered around the corner of the alcove. Ser Petyr still stood to attention; his head fixed in the opposite direction. Taking advantage of his stance, Jaime grabbed Brienne’s hand, and they stole away into another room and out a side corridor. Ser Brynden would be furious. He would come beating on the door like he had the other day when Brienne had snuck into his bedchambers. But _fuck it. _They were to be wed in a matter of moons.

So what if the Queen sucked his cock before the Septon tied their hands together?

They reached his bedchambers without incident. Jaime closed the door firmly behind them, only to find himself pinned against the wood. Brienne ran her hands through his hair; fingers teasing his scalp. She plucked a kiss from his lips before tearing at the buttons of his tunic. He worked on hers. Together they discarded their clothes and boots before Brienne pulled him by his undershirt towards the bed. Two firm hands pushed him into a sitting position. He widened his legs and allowed Brienne to kneel between them.

It was at this point that her confidence wavered. “I–I don’t–I’ve only _seen_—”

“It’s all right.” He stroked her hair; his thumb brushing the healing mark on her cheek “I’ll instruct you. Undo my breeches.”

Nimble fingers reached for the laces. The heel of her hand brushed his stiff cock and Jaime tried not to groan. Laces undone; Brienne helped him remove his breeches. And his smallclothes. Jaime then moved aside his shirt so Brienne could see his cock for the first time. It was not a monster to terrify young maidens, but it would not make them laugh, either. Brienne stared; her teeth buried in her bottom lip. Jaime reached out to take her hand. The thought of teaching his beloved how to pleasure him made him even harder. _Slow, _he thought. _Take it slow. Don’t overwhelm her. _

“Just touch me.” After Brienne gave a single nod, Jaime placed her hand upon his cock. She drew in a breath; her thumb rubbing the underside. He bucked into her touch. “Yes. _Yes._ Keep doing that. Trust your instincts, Brienne.”

And she did. Her hand ghosted over his cock; a gentle, explorative touch. She then gripped the shaft and began to pump him; no doubt mimicking what she had seen in the rebel camp. Jaime rocked in time with her motions; his grin at the pleasure she gave him matching the one upon Brienne’s face. She was enjoying this. And, _fuck, _so was he. Perhaps another man would care little for the size of her hand on his cock, but Jaime enjoyed how much of him she could grasp. Her fingertips were calloused; her palm softer than his own. The sensation was overwhelming. And then her thumb teased the head of his cock and the moisture gathering on the tip. Jaime swallowed. His betrothed was a quick study.

“Can I kiss you, Jaime?”

“Of course.”

In a moment of blissful naivety, he had imagined that Brienne meant to kiss him upon his lips. Perhaps his temple as she continued to fuck him with her hand. Ever a surprise, Brienne instead placed her lips upon the head of his cock. A jolt of pleasure rushed through him. “Oh, _Gods._”

“Did that feel good?”

He managed a nod. “Yes. _Yes. _Do that. Do that some more.”

Brienne’s lips trailed along his cock; her hand gripping the base of his shaft. He was mesmerised by the image in front of him: Brienne’s familiar blonde head bobbing between his thighs; the glint of sapphires as she stole a look to see if he was enjoying himself. Then she swirled her tongue around the head, and Jaime cried out in ecstasy. His hand gripped the mattress underneath him as Brienne continued to stroke his cock with her tongue.

“Can I take you in my mouth?” Brienne asked; face ruddy; the indent of teeth marks in her bottom lip betraying an innocence that belied her hands, her tongue. _Fuck, _this day just continued to get better. “When I was in camp, I saw one of the followers take a man whole.”

“It can be uncomfortable, depending on the length of the man.” Jaime caressed Brienne’s cheek, the swell of her mouth. “Don’t push yourself. Maybe you could—” He gulped. “—suck the head.”

“You’d like that?”

“I will like anything you do. _Believe me._”

Brienne bent her head to his cock. She kissed the tip once more; Jaime’s eagerness betrayed in a thrust of his hips. Brienne then enclosed her lips around the head and _sucked. _The wet heat of her mouth was enough to build Jaime to near-orgasm. Brienne’s hand on the rest of him, stroking and twisting his shaft, did the rest. He waited as long as he could, enjoying the sensation of Brienne’s lips wrapped around his cock, and then eased himself away to spill on his thighs and stomach.

Taking a deep breath, Jaime looked across at Brienne. Her thumb wiped a drop of moisture from her bottom lip. “You could have spent in my mouth.”

“I could.” Jaime rose to his feet, heading for the basin. He cleaned himself off with tepid water before tossing his soiled shirt in the corner. Jaime then pulled on a muslin shirt and his discarded breeches before returning to his beloved. Now standing, he could see that the blue eyes he loved so much were hazy with lust; her muscles coiled and in need of release. “Next time, if you wish it, I won’t pull away. But not everyone likes the taste.”

“You liked the taste of me.”

“Did I?” He closed the gap between them: his hands resting at her waistband; his mouth on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “I should have another taste. Just to remind myself.”

Together he and Brienne tore at the laces of her breeches until they, and her smallclothes, were a puddle on the floor. His hands palmed her behind as Jaime grabbed her and practically tossed Brienne on his mused bedsheets. His fresh shirt was thrown aside as he covered Brienne’s body with his own; his mouth promising all sorts of things he intended to deliver.

\--

Her squire delivered a note just as Brienne had finished dressing for the evening. She had dismissed her handmaidens lest they see the marks Jaime had left upon her thighs, her right breast. _Gods, _she could still feel his mouth on her cunt; the firmness of his finger inside of her. After seeing his cock, Brienne could hardly wait to feel it sheathed within her. The weight of Jaime’s body atop her own; her legs wrapped around his hips. Or her atop him; his skilled tongue swirling around a pebbled nipple. Or—

“Your Grace? Shall I send a reply?”

Realising she stood there, simply holding the unopened note in her hand, Brienne quickly tore open the wax seal of a rose and scanned the contents. “No need. Lady Tyrell will join us for dinner after all.”

After handing her squire Olenna’s correspondence, the boy departed. His presence was quickly replaced by someone else. “I am told that congratulations are in order.”

“Father!”

Lord Selwyn Tarth cut an imposing figure: his beard well-trimmed; his tunic and cloak in their house colours. The _royal _house colours. But, at that moment, she was not a Queen: she was a daughter who was now betrothed. Her father opened his arms, and Brienne fell against him. He held her, dropping a kiss atop the crown of her head.

“Just when I think I could not be prouder of you, child.” Her father stared down at her; those two inches making Brienne feel like a little girl once again. “The Queen. A _Knight. _And now you are to marry Lord Tywin’s golden cub.”

Brienne chuckled. “So much has happened these last few days, I can scarcely keep track of it all. And now I am to be married. You’ve talked to Jaime, haven’t you? You–you like him?”

“Would it matter if I did not?”

“No.” Her adamance surprised her. But her love for Jaime was true, and she would not be dissuaded by the opinions of others; even her own father. “It does not matter. But if you don’t, I hope you grow to. He is a good man. He’ll be a good husband.”

Her father nodded. “I agree. A good man, with a good sword. Who wants a good woman, with a good sword, for a wife. You are better than he deserves, no doubt.”

“And on _that, _I agree.” Jaime swanned through the open doorway, grinning at the pair of them. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, Lord Tarth, but I’d hoped to escort my intended to our betrothal dinner.”

Brienne beamed, immediately crossing to Jaime’s side and taking his proffered arm. She then turned to her father and witnessed a wistful stare; his own arm falling by his side. Her father said nothing, just offered a weak smile before the three of them took to the halls of the Red Keep. The celebratory dinner would be a small affair: she and Jaime, her father and Jaime’s brother, Ser Brynden and Lady Olenna. The finer details of their nuptials would be discussed; toasts would be made and kisses exchanged. Unlike the last time she had dined with every one of their guests, she did not have to hold back her affections for Jaime tonight.

Dinner was to be held in their favourite spot in the Red Keep gardens. Tyrion was already seated when they arrived. He stood and embraced his brother warmly, before opening his arms to her, too. “Your Grace, I am so happy that you are joining our family. Although, I must question your state of mind. You _have_ met our father, haven’t you?”

“On numerous occasions. I have also heard…_stories _of your sister.” Jaime’s hand squeezed her shoulder as she took the seat he had pulled out for her. “But I love your brother enough to deal with them both. And call me Brienne, Tyrion. We are to be family soon.”

“That we are.” Taking his seat, Tyrion reached for his goblet and clinked it against hers. “Finally, a sister who won’t despise me.”

Beside her, Jaime stiffened. So, Brienne rested her hand atop his knee, reassuring her beloved. He’d talked little of the relationship between Tyrion and Cersei, but it seemed as if she was a spectre to both Lannister brothers. Brienne made a vow to keep Cersei and her Frey husband _out _of the capital and _away _from her future husband and brother-in-law. She had vowed to protect the innocent, and there was no crime either Lannister brother had committed other than being themselves.

The mood continued to sour as Lady Tyrell made her arrival. She sought words with Brienne’s father, whilst Jaime bent his head towards her ear. “You didn’t tell me _she _was coming.”

“You would have said no. I know her actions earlier were in bad form.” Jaime raised a single eyebrow. “_Fine, _very bad form. But Olenna is my Master of Coin and a close friend.” Brienne took his hand and held it atop the table, in full view of their guests. “You can survive being polite to her for one dinner.”

“Fine,” he huffed, pulling away briefly only to return and whisper, “I can still taste you.”

Brienne busied herself with her goblet lest she devolve into a puddle of _want _at Jaime’s illicit words; his warm breath on her skin. Thankfully, she was saved by the arrival of Ser Brynden. And then, unexpectedly, the presence of a _seventh _chair.

“Who else did you invite?” Jaime asked, a line forming across his brow.

Had Lord Stannis decided to join them? Ser Gerold? Neither, as it turned out. A crisp wind whipped through the gardens; a shadow looming over the table. A slab of ice settled in Brienne’s stomach. As if dragged from the depths of the Seven Hells, Lord Tywin Lannister appeared. He acknowledged neither his Queen nor his sons; instead, he simply took the chair now placed at the head of the table. Five of the other dinners appraised him uneasily. Olenna sat, unimpressed by his theatrics.

“Forgive me, Lord Tywin; I did not realise you were invited. But, then, you do always arrive _late _to these things,” she said.

A muscle twitched in Lord Tywin’s jaw. “If this is a reference to the recent troubles, I would suggest that the Lady Tyrell reflect on the position of her _own _House before considering mine.”

“And yet House Tyrell serves as the Master of Coin.”

“And House Lannister as the Hand to the Queen. Soon to be _King._”

Olenna scoffed. “It is rather…_adorable _how out of the loop you are, Lord Tywin. Ser Jaime will not be _King. _He will serve the Kingdoms and his _Queen _as Prince Consort_._”

“I see.” Lord Tywin’s head finally swivelled in the direction of his eldest son. “I was unaware that my son was to take such a position. As I was unaware of his betrothal until an hour ago.”

Brienne’s hand squeezed Jaime’s, hoping to give him strength. The last time his father had been in King’s Landing, he had made Jaime question his capability. She was proud to see that his father’s words no longer affected him. In fact, her beloved even _shrugged._ “Up until two minutes ago, Father, I was unaware that you were even in the _city_. And I see no reason for you to gripe: House Lannister will be elevated, as you have always wanted. Seven Hells, Aerys’ body was still warm and you were insisting I marry Brienne!”

“You were?” Her hand jerked away from his. Jaime immediately turned to her. “He was?”

“_Yes_.” Whilst Brienne was not surprised by Tywin Lannister’s machinations; she _was _surprised that Jaime had kept them from her. “The first time was during a war council meeting; you had yet to be crowned.” Brienne remembered Jaime’s summons. She remembered that his heart had been held by another, then, too. “The second was after I had become your Hand, and we were merely friends. A few hints in letters since; nothing definitive. Brienne, even before I knew you – _loved you – _I wanted you to marry for love. And now, I am honoured that you are.”

Brienne laced Jaime’s fingers with her own. In truth, he had been right to reject his father’s attempts: although they were happy now, a betrothal in the early days of their acquaintance would have changed _everything_. It could have taken them longer to fall in love, if the forced nature of their relationship allowed it at all. Their courtship had been a joy; expressions of their affection in every note, flower, and gift. That wouldn’t have happened had they wed soon after her coronation. Brienne would not change a moment of this life, even if doing so meant a few more moons as Jaime’s wife. 

Squeezing his hand, Brienne drew to her feet. The other guests, including Lord Tywin, rose to theirs. She held her future father-in-law’s gaze as she lifted her goblet and raised it in the direction of her betrothed. “Jaime, we are not people of words. Our words are vows, written long before our parents were even born. But I cannot wait to make new vows with you. To you, my Golden Lion.”

“And to you, my Warrior Queen.”

“To you both.” Her father offered the third toast; his goblet raised high, and his eyes shining. Had he ever imagined that his daughter would be so happy? That he could toast to such things with joy instead of trepidation? “May you have a long, happy union, with many sword-wielding children.”

She and Jaime laughed. Next to toast was Tyrion. The youngest at the table; his face bare and honest. He had never expected to have his brother back, Brienne knew. Whether he died in King’s Landing or remained tied to Cersei forever, Jaime had been lost years ago. But now: “You have found each other in a time of great darkness. May your marriage be full of light. To my brother and Brienne!”

Across the table, Olenna continued. “To Her Grace and Ser Jaime. The war took many things, but it has given you both so much. May the Gods continue to smile upon you both.”

“Aye, to _Ser _Brienne and Ser Jaime!” Ser Brynden crowed. He gulped his wine, peering over the rim. “All of us, _especially me, _are eager to see you two finally wed.”

Everyone had toasted. Everyone apart from Jaime’s father. Six pairs of eyes stared at the head of the table, awaiting his offering. There was a slight falter of his mouth; his eyes downcast rather than sharp, watchful. Brienne knew that look. The others may not recognise it, but she did. It was the same look her father wore every time he recalled her mother. Brienne knew little of the former Lady Lannister except she had died bringing Tyrion into the world. But she knew Jaime’s mother had been adored by all that knew her, including her devoted husband.

Tywin Lannister raised his goblet to them. “To marrying for love.”

And that is what they would do. Marry for love, fuck for pleasure, and live for each other. Their wedding would be the stuff of stories, of songs. They would be _happy. _Just as they deserved.


	14. I am His, and He is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen and her Hand become husband and wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay...after saying there wouldn't be any more delays! First, there was Christmas and New Year, and then I had a sinus infection, and I've been working on my teacher training application...a lot has been going on. But I present the penultimate chapter, and hope it was worth the wait. Thank you to remuslovestonks and agirlnamedkeith/sameboots for all your support and enthusiasm when this was first written. Thank you to everyone who liked/commented/reblogged Chapter 13. 
> 
> Grab your invitations, gifts, and dancing shoes, we're going to a wedding!

“To my brother Jaime, on his last night of freedom!” 

The bedchambers of the Queen’s Hand became filled with drunken cheers as Jaime’s brother, a handful of his cousins, and his childhood friend Addam Marbrand, toasted to his nuptials the following day. It was not, perhaps, the solemn reflection of matrimony and love that Jaime had expected, however. The wine and ale flowed freely as if from a well; the three whores Addam had procured from one of the best brothels in King’s Landing were akin to sirens from the Lannisport cliffs. They danced, and they smiled, and they removed their clothes. More than one had offered to suck him dry as a wedding gift. 

Jaime had _politely _declined. 

As he now declined the offer of a soft hand around his shaft, and a shot of something that looked like wildfire in a cup. “I’ll pass; thank you.” 

“No, _no, _you can’t keep passing!” Tyrion said, knocking his elbow into Jaime’s side. “This is your last night of bachelordom. Do you not wish to celebrate?” 

“I shall save the celebrations for tomorrow when I am with my wife.” 

A small finger poked his cheek. “There. _There. _I told you, Addam, I told you. Every time he says the word _wife, _he looks like he’s just shit gold.” 

“Forgive me, Brother, for being excited at the prospect of marriage.” 

Again, he smiled; leaning back in his chair and thinking of what tomorrow would bring. After five long, _tiresome _moons, Brienne would be his wife. No more wedding preparations; no more agonising over invitations or the security arrangements for the sept. He would stand in front of Court and country and await his beautiful bride. And then, when the Septon announced them husband and wife, they could lie together as the Gods intended. As they _longed _to do. They had touched each other, of course. Jaime had worked two fingers inside Brienne’s cunt, now, and his future wife had dedicated herself to the art of swallowing as much of his cock as she could. But tomorrow there would be no more holding back. 

And the day after that, Jaime would wake up in her bed. _Their _bed. 

A small hand slapped at his cheek whilst another yanked at his ear, dragging him out of his reveries. He shook his head at Addam and Tyrion. “You’re all just jealous,” he said, taking a swig of his ale. “You’re all jealous that I’m _happy _and in _love _and—” 

“—I don’t buy it!” Addam declared, smacking Jaime’s shoulder. “You are not at _all_ nervous about marrying the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

Many goblets rose in the air; _long may she reign _joining the cheers, squeals, and the ping of buttons. Jaime raised his own high in tribute to his future wife, before drinking to her good health and fortune. “Why would I be nervous? We love each other. The Stranger is not hovering over our nuptials, Addam. Everything will go as planned, and by this time tomorrow, I will only be addressed as _Your Highness._” 

His old friend laughed, and was thankfully distracted from his interrogation by a redheaded beauty removing her dress. Jaime sighed and waited for his brother to pick up the gauntlet. Tyrion had never kept quiet on the subject of Brienne, and the night before his wedding was no different. “And what of her? Do you think _she _is nervous?” 

“Why would she be? I told you, Brother, _she’s _not coming.”

Whilst most guest lists for royal weddings took much effort and debate, Cersei’s invitation warranted more than any other. Their father had _insisted _that Cersei and her husband be invited, be _welcomed, _and sit at the head table along with the rest of the family. _You didn’t have the decency to make it to her wedding _(a brief ceremony at the sept in Casterly Rock; an emergency in the capital had left the Queen’s Hand unable to travel). _At least she can attend yours. _Jaime had tried to argue. Could not abide the thought of Cersei and Brienne meeting, of his _sweet _sister trying to get her claws into him once again. But how could he explain to his father the true reasons behind the exclusion of his own twin sister? 

In the end, it was Brienne who did what he could not. “Three days it took her to get Father to agree. I think she threatened to strip our entire fortune if Cersei attended.” 

“It’s not just Cersei. Brienne is…” Tyrion paused. “We have much in common, my future sister-in-law and I. A great many people treat us differently because of the way we look. You love her. Brienne knows you love her. But, speaking from many years of experience, there will be a little voice in her head that has been screaming at her for days that says your wedding is too good to be true.” 

Brienne _had_ grown quiet the last few days. Jaime had assumed it was nothing more than the incoming stream of wedding guests; a string of minor emergencies. _Fuck. _He immediately rose to his feet. “I need to see her.” 

“Jaime, it’s late. And we’re _celebrating._” 

“I know, and I’m grateful, Tyrion. But I love Brienne, and as her future husband, it’s my duty to tell that little voice to _fuck off._” 

A soft smile encroached upon his brother’s features, and Jaime was reminded of the young boy he’d left behind in Casterly Rock, only to be reunited with a man. Tyrion clinked his goblet against Jaime’s near-full cup. “One day, Brother, I hope to love someone as much as you love Brienne.” 

“You will, Tyrion, I’m sure of it. A young lady from a noble house. A crofter’s daughter…you _will _find love. I’m sure of it.” 

And with those kind words, Jaime left his dearest family and friends to enjoy what would have been his last night in his bedchambers as Hand to the Queen. Tomorrow he would sleep in Brienne’s – in _their _– bed, and would continue to do so until taken by the Stranger itself. As the noises from the celebration faded, Jaime thought of what awaited him at the other end of his journey. Settling on a plan of attack, he detoured to the armoury before making the familiar walk to Brienne’s chambers –and the last time he would ever refer to the owner as a single occupant.

He arrived at her door with a bundle tucked underneath his arm. Ser Brynden greeted him with a warm smile. “I thought you would be out celebrating your last night of bachelordom.” 

“Overrated,” he said. “I’d rather spend the last night before I am to be a husband with my future wife.” 

Ser Brynden gave a brief nod, as if that was, indeed, the right answer. He rapped three times on the door. “Your Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister is here to see you.” 

_Tomorrow, _he thought as the door swung open. _Tomorrow, it’ll be Prince Jaime. _

Stepping inside their future bedchambers, Jaime’s gaze immediately sought his betrothed. He had wondered whether Olenna would throw something similar to Tyrion’s celebrations. A night of wine and female discussion; questions of the wedding night, as if Brienne had not already experienced some of the pleasures he intended to give her. Instead, she was alone. A single cup of water held between her palms; her bottom lip chewed by nervous teeth. For once, he was glad of Tyrion’s observations. His not-yet-wife had need of him. 

“Brienne.” 

She did not look up. “You’re here to call it off, aren’t you.” 

He should be insulted that she would think so little of him to wait until the night before their wedding if he had any doubts – of which he had none. But Jaime knew her history. Three former betrothals. A lifetime of humiliation by men who saw her not as a prize but as a target. And tomorrow, she would wed Ser Jaime Lannister; a man most considered to be the handsomest in all of Westeros. He could not fault her for questioning; for indulging her fears at this most vulnerable of hours.

So, Jaime closed the distance between them, and fell to his knees by her feet. She looked up, then, and he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I am not here to call off our wedding, Brienne. I am here, in fact, to rectify a mistake when I proposed. Brienne, I am here to duel for your hand.” 

She spluttered, blue eyes watching him intently as he removed the bundle from underneath his arm and revealed two sparring swords wrapped in linens. “I don’t understand.”

“Wagstaff. You made him duel for the honour of your hand in marriage. Although we have sparred _many _times, I have not yet won the right to call you my wife.” He held her gaze. “Let’s go to our spot. Let me fight for the right to wed you. Let me stand in the sept tomorrow knowing I have earned your love, and the right to have you call me Husband.” 

Brienne did not say anything. She just surged forward, cradling his face with her hands, as she took what would be one of their last unmarried kisses. She then rested her head upon his brow. “You have earned my love a thousand-fold, and earned the right to call yourself my husband a long, _long _time ago.”

He grinned. “Does this mean you yield?” 

It did not. That happened later, _much later_, as the sun began to crest over the horizon. They had fought for what seemed like hours; their last dance as ser and maid. But Jaime finally knocked Brienne to the dirt and pinned her hands in place above her head. With his teeth at her throat, she gave him her surrender. 

They would marry. _Today. _

\-- 

Today. Brienne was getting married to Jaime _today. _

In truth, she had started to believe it would not happen. The preparations seemed endless: the guest list, the reception, the constant dress fittings. For a normal couple, this would be overwhelming, but for the Queen and her Hand, responsible for all Seven Kingdoms, it was _exhausting_. They stole what little time they could, but it was not nearly enough. Over the last few days, Brienne had grown worried that _she _would not be enough. Her fears, as ever, were unfounded when they came to Jaime Lannister. He had arrived on her doorstep the night before their wedding speaking of winning her hand, her heart, as if he had not done so already. It was a distraction. It was a reassurance. It was a necessity, and one that had put her fears to bed.

And now she stood, on a dais in the bedchambers she would later share with her _husband, _being dressed for her wedding.

“_Oh,_” said Olenna, as the handmaidens finished the laces at her back. “You look…” Lady Tyrell did not finish her sentence. Instead, she reached for an olive handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. “Brienne, you look like the Maiden.”

“I–I don’t know about that.”

One of her handmaidens tugged at her skirts. “You do, Your Grace. Ser Jaime won’t know what’s come over him when he sees you in this.”

“I—"

Olenna, sensing her discomfort, hurried the two handmaidens away. When they were alone, her Master of Coin – her dear friend, since her very first fitting in the Red Keep – took Brienne’s hands. “You will be wonderful; of that, I have no doubt.” Olenna smiled. “That boy loves you; of _that, _I have no doubt. Today will be long. On occasion, it will be dull. But at the end of it, you will be forever joined with the man you love.”

“Thank you, Olenna.” Brienne clasped Lady Tyrell’s hands tight within her own; tears already forming and they had not yet made it to the sept. “You have been a true friend to me. I…I never knew my mother. _I mean_, I do not wish to imply that you are filling that void. I _know_ that you have daughters of your own, and—”

“—child, it’s _fine_. I know what you are trying to say.” Olenna swallowed. “No mother could be prouder. Now, come. _It’s time._”

Brienne took Olenna’s proffered arm, and together they left her bedchambers, the last time she would do so as a maiden. Outside, all seven members of her Queensguard stood ready to escort her to the Sept of Baelor. All seven stood, gold armour gleaming and smiles bright, as they took in their Queen. Then, ahead of them, was her father. Olenna’s tailor had done wonders for him, too: a tailored tunic in deep blue with gold starbursts; two golden crowns embroidered either side of his buttoned collar. The fabric bit into her father’s throat as he swallowed; overwhelmed by the sight of his daughter.

“Oh, _Brienne._” He drew in a breath. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as happy as you do at this moment.”

Patting Olenna’s arm, Brienne reached out to take her father’s. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I am at this moment.” She paused. “Maybe when I was knighted. But that is the _only _rival.”

Surrounded by the people she loved, Brienne began her procession to the Great Sept. _To Jaime_. Her father held her arm until they left the Red Keep and entered the open carriage that would take them through the city. Already her people had lined the roads to catch a glimpse of her; to cheer her name, to throw sunflowers and blue stars at the wheels. The bells rang out in the city to celebrate her nuptials. Brienne could not imagine anything more different than to what she had thought her previous weddings would be: a drab ceremony at Evenfall Hall; the grim face of a groom who seemed to greet the Stranger rather than his bride.

Her wedding to Jaime was almost like a dream. She pinched herself three times as they travelled the stone roads towards the Sept of Baelor just to make sure.

All too soon, they were there. From inside, Brienne could hear the echo of chanting, just audible over the ringing of the bells. A tentative hand took her father’s as she descended from the carriage. Grabbing a handful of her dress, they climbed the steps to the large, open doors. For a moment, Brienne wondered if she was in the wrong place. The Sept of Baelor was far too grand for the wedding of a minor lord’s daughter. These guests were not here for her. The whispers, however, were familiar. So were the looks as she entered on her father’s arm.

But then there was Jaime.

He stood, alone, up a single flight of steps. Brienne had seen him that morning; had run her fingers through his golden hair, kissed the stubble on his cheeks. If Olenna thought her the Maiden, then _clearly _Jaime was the Warrior. He stood in a crimson tunic; two gold lions embroidered across his chest. A cloak – the House Lannister cloak that Tywin had draped across Jaime’s mother’s shoulders – now rested upon his. His mouth fell as he saw her. He looked as if he would weep.

“I wept when I saw your mother,” her father whispered as they made their way down the aisle. “I could not believe the Gods had granted me such luck as to marry her.”

It seemed as if Jaime shared that sentiment. His gaze was unwavering; taking her all in. Her crown resting atop her head; similar in nature to the one that had been forged for the future Prince Consort. Her hair was weaved with flowers identical to the ones Jaime had gifted her during their courtship. Her shoulders were near-bare, covered only by a Tarth-blue cloak Jaime would remove and replace with his own. And her _dress. Oh_, her dress really was something the Maiden would wear. The bodice was akin to a sleeveless tunic; her collar high, with gold cord laced across the front. The skirt, however, was the moonlit waters of the straits of Tarth: the hem similar in appearance to the white froth of seawater; the tide arriving with every step. Finally, similar to her father’s tunic, there was golden embroidery upon her collar. A sun and a lion.

When her father relinquished her arm so Jaime could take it, her beloved seemed lost for words. “I…”

Brienne reached over and brushed her lips to his. One last kiss as they were; a single palm resting above Jaime’s racing heart. The sept – _nay, _the whole world – melted away until it was just the two of them. Brienne allowed herself one more moment to linger, her voice soft as she said, “_I know._”

Together, they ascended the final steps towards the High Septon. He offered a low bow towards Brienne and a deep nod to Jaime. “Ser Jaime, you may now cloak Queen Brienne, first of her name, and bring her under your protection.”

Jaime stepped forward and eased the blue cloak from her shoulders. His knuckles brushed her spine, eyes widening as he found bare skin. Blinking, Jaime took a step back to collect himself. Then, with a flourish, he pulled the Lannister cloak from his shoulders. Brienne meant to turn, to offer her back to aid Jaime in his cloaking. But she could not tear her eyes away from him. From the _love _she felt radiating in every look, every touch. She felt rather than saw the cloak be draped around her shoulders. The two edges came together in front of her torso; Jaime’s hands lingering in front of her chest.

“Such a shame to cover up such a beautiful dress.” Jaime fingered her collar, and the golden lion embroidered on the silk. Jaime then took her hands in his and lifted them to his lips. He kissed both sets of knuckles. “I love you so much. I cannot wait to marry you.”

“If we keep stopping, you never will.”

He barked out a laugh. “You’re right. Enough sentiment; let’s just get married already. Septon, if you would?”

Amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, the High Septon addressed them and their guests. “Lords, Ladies, _Your Grace._” He smiled at Brienne. “We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul: now and forever.” 

As instructed, Jaime held her right hand with his left, and together they offered them to the Septon. A gold ribbon was tied around their hands, joining them forever. Brienne tried to remain composed as the material was wound around her skin. She failed. Her and Jaime. Now and forever. One flesh: blood spilled in sparring matches; the cuts and bruises and nightmares that had led them to one another. One heart: the trust and comfort they had placed in each other from the moment of their meeting; the love they had found along the way. One soul: different vows, no less important, that would bind them forever as one.

“Let it be known that Queen Brienne of House Tarth, first of her name, and Ser Jaime of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.” The Septon then looked above to the looming statues of the Gods. "In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls; binding them as one for eternity.” He then removed the ribbon from their hands. “Look upon each other and say the words.”

Brienne turned to Jaime. The man she loved. The man she trusted enough to be her chief adviser. The man she would spend the rest of her days with. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger: I am his.” _I am yours, Jaime. Always. _“And he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Jaime closed his eyes, briefly, as if to savour this moment. He opened them, only to gaze upon her with more love than Brienne thought it possible for one person to hold for another. But he did. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger: I am hers.” _Yes, my love. You’re mine. _“And she is mine.” _Always, always, always. _“From this day, until the end of my days.”

Her husband then turned to their assembled guests. “With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

His lips pressed to hers. Not the gentle brush found at most ceremonies: no, Prince Jaime Lannister cupped the back of his wife’s head and kissed her as deeply as he wished. It was only the Septon’s clearing of his throat that made her _husband _pull away. Her husband. _His wife. _

\--

His wife took his arm after the Septon proclaimed them married, and together they made their way down the aisle of the Sept of Baelor. Jaime had served two monarchs; he was used to people bowing in his presence. But this was the first time people were bowing to _him. _Even his father and brother offered fealty in his new position as Prince Consort. He held Brienne’s arm a little tighter. It would take some getting used to – the bowing, the guards, the constant assassination attempts – but it would all be worth it if it meant he got to call Brienne his wife.

_His wife. _“Hello, _wife,_” he said as they finally left the sept.

Beside him, Brienne beamed. “Hello, _husband._”

“I _really _like the way you say that.” Jaime grinned, dropping Brienne’s arm to cradle her face with his hands. He laid a kiss upon her lips, more reverently than he had at the altar. He planned to kiss his wife in a multitude of different ways before the sun fell. “I can’t believe we’re finally married.”

“Worth the wait?”

“I’d wait the Long Night to marry you.”

Thankfully, their wedding day held no snow or ice (save the Starks, who had been in the second row on Brienne’s side of the sept). It was a cloudless day, with a deep blue sky and a warm sun. More of the smallfolk had gathered near the Great Sept since Jaime’s arrival on horseback, and even then, he had been cheered as the future husband to their beloved Queen. Now they cheered for them both. They waved and threw flowers and tokens of House Tarth. Not so long had passed that people had forgotten what his father had done to the city. But they knew what _he _had done, and that was all that mattered.

Jaime pressed a hand to the small of his wife’s back as he helped her into the carriage. “I didn’t expect all this.”

“Me either.” She rested her head upon his shoulder as they sat side-by-side. Brienne joined their hands like they had at the altar. “Do you think we could steal away for a few hours and just be together?”

“Later, my love. We spent a great deal of the Crown’s money on a feast; we should at least eat _some _of it.”

“If you insist, Prince Jaime.”

He grinned and reached down to press a kiss to Brienne’s temple. “I did win the right, my Queen.”

Their carriage departed and headed for the reception at the Red Keep. Their journey felt very much a blur. Suddenly they were home; servants and squires that had referred to him as _Ser Jaime, _or _my Lord Hand, _now bowed deeply and called him _Your Highness. _The members of Brienne’s Queensguard who had turned a blind eye to _some _of their activities now just bowed and let him hold his wife as tightly as he dared. His _wife. _Although it would be wonderful to spend some time alone with Brienne, he relished the thought of celebrating their union. He needed it known from the Wall to Sunspear just how much he adored his wife.

Their wedding reception was to be held in the gardens overlooking the water. Canopies in blue and gold would drape over the guest tables; two flags, one for each of their house sigils, would hang beside the high table. While it was traditional for both families to sit there, it had been decided by the Small Council that only Jaime and Brienne would. With House Martell in attendance, Brienne had not wished to draw more favour to Tywin Lannister – other than marrying his eldest son, of course. And with Brienne’s family limited solely to her father, the table would seem unbalanced. That had been an entire week’s worth of arguments, but Brienne had won that one, too. Honestly, Jaime preferred it just the two of them.

“Allow me, _wife,_” he said, pulling out Brienne’s chair at the high table.

She sat; Jaime taking up the elegantly carved chair beside her. “Thank you, _husband._”

They had been the first to leave and the first to arrive. Now their wedding guests moved through the gardens of the Red Keep in all their finery. They bowed to the royal couple as they entered and took their seats. When everyone was settled, the servants brought wine for the first toast. Jaime had suggested Olenna make it, as a member of Brienne’s Small Council and a close friend of them both…_well, _a close friend of Brienne’s. “To Queen Brienne and Prince Jaime: _long may they reign._”

“LONG MAY THEY REIGN.”

After Olenna’s toast, the first of _many _courses was brought out. Between the plates, guests approached to wish them luck and offer their wedding gifts, as neither he nor Brienne had held the tradition of a wedding breakfast. First to approach was Hoster Tully. His gift was matching goblets painted with their combined house sigil (an azure lion flanked by a gold moon and sun) so they could drink to a long, happy life together. Jon Arryn was next. Brienne welcomed her old friend, and his gift of histories of the old kings. The third house to approach was the Baratheons: Stannis shaking Jaime’s hand; Renly (much to Jaime’s annoyance) kissing the hand of his wife.

“An extravagant gift, perhaps, but you and your father have always been a good friend to our House,” the younger Baratheon said, before producing a sheaf of papers.

“It’s a ship,” Stannis said, with all the bluntness of the sparring swords he and Brienne had used in the early hours. “_Sapphire, _she’s called. You can visit Tarth whenever you desire, Your Grace. I’m sure someone appropriate will be appointed Hand in the absence of you and your husband.”

Beside him, his wife’s shoulders stiffened. “Thank you, Lord Stannis; Lord Renly. A very _thoughtful _gift.”

“Yes,” Jaime said. A touching gesture with an ulterior motive: he wouldn’t have expected anything less from the Baratheons. “I’m sure you’ve given _great _thought to it, my Lords.”

Stannis and Renly offered their congratulations once again and departed with a bow. Rather than linger on that unpleasantness, however, Jaime leant over and kissed his wife. She relaxed into his touch, and they were still exchanging light kisses when their fourth guest approached. Mace Tyrell, technically the head of his house despite his mother’s iron grip, gifted them two mares in the hope that they would hunt and ride together. Balon Greyjoy did not dawdle as he gave his congratulations on their union, and their wedding gift was a polished anchor – the sentiment lost on both of them. Their next guest was Oberyn Martell; his brother, Doran, unable to make the journey from Dorne. He bowed low and deep.

“Your Grace, it is an honour to finally put a face to your just actions.” Martell kissed Brienne’s hand. He then turned to Jaime; his eyes dragging lasciviously up his body. “My Prince, you are as handsome as the stories speak of you. Both of you make quite the vision.”

Jaime fumbled for a response. His bride simply brushed. “You are too kind, Prince Oberyn. I hope you know how _greatly _we treasure Dorne and your House. I hope to strengthen our union in the coming years.”

“Perhaps a match? I have daughters; you will one day have a son.”

Brienne’s flush deepened as she turned to Jaime. He squeezed her hand, both thinking about the night ahead of them. “Hopefully, we will have many of both.”

“Perhaps my gift will help.” Brienne’s squire brought out the wedding gift from House Martell. Jaime’s eyes widened as he took in the weighty tome and the lewd imagery on the front. “A great number of positions: some for your pleasure, some for his, most for both. Some require an extra set of hands…I intend to remain in the capital for some time, if you ever have need of me. Congratulations on your wedding, my Queen; my Prince.”

After Prince Oberyn returned to his table, Brienne’s squire took the book and placed it with the other gifts. Jaime reached for the goblet in front of him and took a large gulp of wine. His wife took a sip of hers before pressing the cool metal to her rosy cheeks. As he drank, Jaime tried to process what had just occurred. _Well, _at least there was no animosity between House Martell and _one _Lannister. But despite the polite offer, Jaime had no intentions of sharing his bride. They would, however, put that gift to _very _good use.

There were still two of the great noble houses to offer their gifts. Among the guests, Jaime saw his father stand to offer his. Ned Stark beat him to it. “My Queen.” He drew in a breath. “My Prince.”

“Lord Stark. How lovely to see you again.” Jaime placed his goblet upon the high table and lounged in his seat, taking in the tame wolf in front of him. “The last time we did, I seem to remember you suggesting we would _both _be leaving King’s Landing.”

“Aye, I did.” A muscle twitched in Stark’s cheek. “That was before our Queen explained, _in length,_ what you did for this city.” Stark swallowed. “What you did for me.”

Jaime cast his gaze into the guests. The Tully red hair was hard to miss. Lysa Arryn held what Jaime could only assume to be the Winterfell heir, named after the would-be-king, Robert Baratheon. Catelyn Stark held his supposed bastard son – _Rhaegar’s son _– in her arms. He could recall that babe; how it had felt to hold something so pure and innocent after so much death. It felt utterly ridiculous to earn Ned Stark’s respect by simply _not _ordering the murder of an innocent child.

But then he wondered what Robert would have done, and it did not seem so ridiculous after all.

“My congratulations to you both. My gift is perhaps…_untraditional, _but when the thought struck, I could think of nothing better.”

Lord Stark looked to his left, signalling one of his men with a brief nod. He approached, carrying two bundles of linen. The Northerner bowed to his Queen, his Prince, and laid the unwrapped gifts upon the table. Jaime knew instantly what they were, and from his wife’s hand on his wrist, she knew it too. _Well done, Stark. _Giving swords to two knights on their wedding day was the _perfect _gift. But then Stark unwound the linen and brought the blades into view. Jaime’s mouth went slack for the second time that day. The blades were almost as beautiful as his wife had been in the Great Sept.

“Valyrian steel,” Brienne said, lifting up one of the swords with sapphires set into the helm and a sunburst as it’s pommel. “Ned, they’re exquisite.”

“Truly, Lord Stark.” The second blade was adorned with rubies and had a lion’s head as its pommel. Both swords had been forged for them, and them alone. _Lions and sapphires. _“How did you come to possess so much Valyrian steel?”

“_Ice._”

“Yes,” Stark said, confirming Brienne’s words. Jaime suddenly remembered that Small Council meeting so many moons ago, and how Lord Stark’s greatsword that had been damaged in an altercation with some Wildlings. Rather than re-forging, he had created two swords for his Queen and his Prince. “You have both done a great deal for my family. I could not think of a finer tribute than to have these swords made from my own.” Lord Stark gave them a rare smile. “It’s said the best swords have names. Any ideas?”

Brienne examined her sword. It was long, beautiful, with a deceptively sharp edge. _Her _encased within a blade. It was a shame the Baratheons had already co-opted the name _Sapphire, _as it would have been a lovely name for the sword wielded by the Tarth Queen. _Tarth. Hmm_. Jaime grinned and offered a suggestion. “Stormbreaker.”

“Stormbreaker.” Brienne nodded. A fitting name for a Stormlands Queen who had brought peace after so much war. “It’s perfect.” She turned to him and the blade he held. It took mere seconds for her to think of a name. “Oathkeeper.”

_Oathkeeper. _A fitting name for a man who had broken one oath to keep another; for a man who intended to keep all vows and promises to his wife from this day and every day forth. Oathkeeper. _Yes. _That would do nicely.


	15. The Golden Prince and the Warrior Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne consummate their marriage, and reflect on how far they've come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The final chapter of Head, Hand, Heart. My first JB multi-chapter that took *much* longer than expected, but I hope the journey has been worth it. Writing HHH has been an incredible experience, and Queen Brienne has launched a multitude of side-ideas that are equally as compelling. It's been a struggle to say goodbye, but it's time to say farewell to this part of Queen Brienne and Prince Jaime's story. 
> 
> I want to thank each and every one of you for reading this story. Your comments have been an utter joy; your likes and kudos buoying me to continue the next chapter. I hope you enjoy this final part of HHH, and that you join me for whatever story I write next. Thank you, and happy reading.

In another life, the Maid of Tarth would be home, on her island, raising a goblet at dinner to her absent father as he attended the King’s wedding. In an even stranger one, perhaps, she would be sparring in the courtyard of Evenfall Hall; enjoying the rare moments her husband was not at home. But in _this _life, Brienne was nineteen years old; sitting beside her husband, Ser Jaime Lannister, as they celebrated their wedding.

Gifts had been given. Speeches made. The pigeon pie sliced open; the birds springing forth into the open air. Now the entertainment had begun. Musical segments; songs written about _The Warrior Queen and her Golden Prince. _Performances of the old stories that left both Brienne and Jaime enthralled, and a few lewd bards that had made her cheeks flush crimson. As the evening drew in, a cool breeze made Brienne long for the Lannister cloak Jaime had draped across her shoulders in the sept. Thankfully, one of their guests had seen fit to gift them a large, embroidered blanket in crimson and gold.

“Come here, _wife,” _Jaime said, grinning at her new moniker. She leant back against his chest as he draped the blanket around his shoulders and pulled it tight across her frame. “_There_. Remind me to thank Addam later.”

“It’s warm. _Soft._” Brienne pressed her lips to the underside of Jaime’s jaw. His grin widened. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

“I certainly haven’t.”

In front, the performance finished, and the actors bowed to the Queen and her Prince. Brienne’s squire pressed a small pouch of gold into their hands and off they went. Another set of performers came forth: a re-enactment of Brienne’s win at her nameday tournament. The knights she had defeated were not depicted as favourably as her: Ser Addam Marbrand slipped on a bunch of grapes; Connington hit himself in the face with his own shield. The actor portraying her won the last bout with ease (as the knight tripped over his own feet), and the performance ended with a mock knighthood.

“You were _much _more impressive,” Jaime whispered; his lips lingering on the shell of her ear. “And _arousing._”

Brienne shifted against Jaime’s back, feeling his cock harden as she did so. His teeth nibbled on her earlobe, causing a ragged breath to stutter from her lips. “_Jaime._”

“We said the vows, we had the pie. May we retire, _wife_?” His nose brushed her cheek. “If you wish it, I think it’s finally time we were alone.”

“_Yes._”

With a squeeze of his hand, Brienne rose to her feet. The departing entertainers cleared the stage, and the chatter of their guests fell away until there was no sound but the lap of water, and the hum of crickets. Every eye was upon her. Every day it unsettled her less. She was growing used to it; to being _Queen_. And now she wished to spend her wedding night with her Prince.

“Thank you, all of you, for joining us today. The last few years have not been easy. I only hope that today marks a new era for us all. One of peace and prosperity.” Brienne turned back and took Jaime’s hand. “And of love. There will be more food and wine, and more entertainment for you all. But Prince Jaime and I intend to retire for the night.”

No wolf whistles. No lewd suggestions. No calls for a bedding ceremony. Just Jaime’s hand on the small of her back as they left the reception with her two guards for the evening. The halls of the Red Keep were quiet as they moved through them; every soul who resided within these walls celebrating in their names. Quickly, they reached her bedchambers. _Their _chambers. As they entered, Brienne could see that Jaime’s things had already been moved inside. Their lives, like their hands in the sept, were now intertwined.

Her husband wrapped his arms around her waist; lips lingering on the curve of her neck. There would be time to reflect later. For now, there would be the pleasures they had long denied themselves. Brienne nodded at Ser Petyr and Ser Jason. “Good night, gentlemen.”

“Your Grace. Your Highness.”

And suddenly they were alone. Husband and wife. On their _wedding night_. For all the passion they had shared over the previous moons, uncertainty took her now. Would they tear at each other’s clothes, like they had in fits of passion before? Would it be soft and tender? Her former Septa had told her all sorts of terrible things about what she could expect on this night; if anyone agreed to marry her in the first place, of course. But she had not married for duty; Brienne had married for love. And whatever this night held would be better than all she had previously imagined; all she had ever been told.

Her beloved kept the candles lit. He poured them both a cup of water, and pulled out a chair for her to sit upon. Like the morning they had confessed their feelings, and the night before their wedding, Jaime knelt at her feet. He kissed her hand. “You look like one of the Seven in that dress. It’s beautiful, as I find the woman wearing it. But, dearest wife, may I _please _get you of it?”

Brienne chuckled. “You may, _husband._”

“I’ll take it slow.” Jaime rose to his feet and moved to stand behind her. His fingers began working the flowers out of her hair. She looked up, saw a sunflower resting atop his ear, and _beamed. _“I want to savour every moment of today. I don’t want to forget a single thing.”

Savour he did. Jaime removed each flower from her hair and brushed the strands with his fingers until they ran like waves across her shoulders. Her hair had been dull, brittle, for so many years; her lack of patience with oils and lotions, and her daily swim, had not done it any favours. It would never be as soft or shining as Jaime’s, but her beloved enjoyed running his fingers through it as he removed the pins her handmaidens had used to hold the style in place. He moved her hair to one side once finished, and pressed his lips to the juncture where her shoulder met her neck.

“I love you,” he said against her skin, leaving a trail of kisses along her throat before his teeth nipped at her collarbone. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

Jaime stepped away to remove his wedding doublet and undershirt, leaving him golden in the candlelight. Brienne leant forward for a kiss, but Jaime ducked away. Again, he knelt before her; his hands pressed to her waist and chin resting atop her stomach. Her beloved then tugged at the gold laces of her dress with his teeth; playfully shaking his head when they would not come undone. Brienne laughed, and ran her hands through the mane of her golden lion.

“I find myself torn. On the one hand, I want to tease you by unlacing this dress _very _slowly and with great care. On the other hand, I want to grab my dagger and cut you out of it.” He rocked back on his heels. “What say you, wife?”

With a glint in her eye, Brienne slid a hand underneath her skirts and retrieved the dagger she had affixed to her thigh in case of trouble at the ceremony or reception. Seeing the blade in her hand, Jaime growled low, deep; his teeth bared at the glint of steel. “_Fuck._”

The dress could always be re-laced. But nothing would replace the image of her husband using her coronation gift to remove her wedding dress. When the gold cord lay asunder, they tugged what was left of Brienne’s dress from her shoulders and down her body. Jaime carefully folded the fabric and laid it upon a nearby chair. She used his absence to spread her legs, exposing her cunt. The intimacy they had shared in these last few moons had given Brienne the experience to know _exactly _what she wanted.

“I want your mouth on me.”

“As my wife commands.”

Jaime stole a kiss whilst his hand massaged her left breast. His fingertips teased and tugged at her nipple until it drew into a stiff peak. Jaime’s mouth quickly replaced his fingers, and Brienne stroked his hair as he swirled his tongue around the pebbled flesh. She squirmed as her body filled with want.

“_Jaime._”

“_Oh?_” he said, his face the picture of innocence, save the glint in his eye. “Is that _not_ where you wanted my mouth? Perhaps, _wife, _you should direct me where I need to be.”

He took her right hand and pressed it atop his head. With a wicked grin of her own, Brienne forced his head south towards her cunt. She spread her thighs further to accommodate him between her legs; shifting one onto his shoulder as Jaime’s mouth pressed a kiss to her clit. They had done this many a time since her nameday tournament, but Brienne had not yet grown tired of Jaime’s tongue swirling around the nerve she had used to bring herself pleasure, or of his tongue lapping at her wetness as arousal rolled through her.

When she came, Brienne clamped one hand across her mouth to stop herself from screaming her husband’s name. Jaime peppered kisses across the soft skin of her inner thigh, before slowly reaching up to remove her hand. “They know what we’re doing in here.”

“_Jaime._”

“_Everyone _knows. You don’t have to hide. _We _don’t have to hide.” He grinned. “Let the whole of the Red Keep hear how much Prince Jaime Lannister pleasures his wife.” Jaime gently lifted her hand, and left a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Shall we move to the bed, now?”

Brienne nodded. They had done many things on this mattress. Kissed each other; touched each other. She’d taken Jaime’s cock into her mouth; he’d eased two fingers inside her cunt whilst his thumb had rubbed at her clit. But this was different. Jaime would take her maidenhead in this bed. His cock, thick, _firm, _would be inside her. Jaime relinquished her hand only to undo the laces of his breeches. His cock jutted into the air, waiting to be sheathed inside her. Brienne swallowed, squeezing her legs together at the very idea. Her thoughts were interrupted by Jaime’s soft touch upon her wrist, and then they were both upon the bed. Only, her husband did not lie her down and cover her body with his. Instead, Jaime settled himself at the head of the bed.

“Do you–do you not wish for me to lie down?”

“You can, if you wish it. But I talked to someone, and they said that this position lets you control how much of me you take. And you’re currently wetter than the Narrow Sea—”

“—_Jaime_—_"_

“Which means it should hurt less. I don’t want to hurt you, Brienne.”

“You never could.”

Brienne joined Jaime at the head of the bed. She slid her hands across the breadth of his shoulders, taking a moment to marvel at the firm muscle underneath her fingertips. He really was half-man, half-god. The Warrior taking the Maiden for the first time. Swallowing, she straddled his thighs. Jaime’s touch was gentle; his thumb stroking circles across her hip. Together, they positioned her above his cock. And then Brienne sunk down. Oh. _Oh. _She closed her eyes; her breathing shaky as she welcomed him inside of her. There was a pinch, perhaps, of pain, but she stretched to accommodate him.

When Jaime was fully inside her, Brienne moaned. “Oh, _Jaime, _you feel so good.”

“So do you.” He bent his head and took her breast once more in his mouth. “_Fuck, _Brienne, you’re so wet. So _tight._”

“I don’t know—”

“—whatever feels good, Brienne.” Jaime’s mouth left her breast in favour of her lips; brushing a kiss across them. “I doubt I’ll last long inside you. _So good._”

Gripping Jaime’s shoulders, Brienne followed her husband’s advice and did whatever felt good. Jaime moaned loudly; loud enough for the guards and half their wedding guests to hear. Her handmaidens would undoubtedly see the finger-shaped bruises on her hips as Jaime clung to her. Brienne was just as lost in the rush of sensations: the hard throb of Jaime’s cock inside her; his hands firm on her skin. His mouth – oh Gods, his _mouth _– sucking at her nipple; his teeth teasing the turgid flesh. Brienne continued to move against Jaime’s hips; her cunt tightening around his cock like she had his fingers.

“_Fuck_!” Jaime cried. “Brienne, do that again.”

She did. She kept her rhythm until she felt Jaime’s thumb rub against her clit and, suddenly, she was coming once again. Pleasure exploded within her; everything a haze save for the weight of Jaime’s body against her own. She felt his teeth on her throat as he, too, came; her husband spending inside her. _Fuck._

\--

_Fuck. _

Jaime felt Brienne tighten around his cock; his wife brought to orgasm by the strokes of his thumb. His own hit him like a lance in a joust: one moment he was watching Brienne’s hips jerk against his; the next he was coming. The thought crossed him to pull out, pull away. But Brienne’s fingernails, biting into the blades of his shoulders, kept him where he was. _Where he should be_. He didn’t have to spill his seed onto the bedsheets; wipe clean his own hand and stomach. Getting his wife with child was a necessary task as a husband, and if every time was even _half _as incredible as this…well, there would be _many_ heirs to the throne.

Sated, Jaime sagged against the headboard. Brienne still straddled his hips, wavering slightly. He eased his wife down upon his chest; his cock softening inside her. He let out a breath and allowed a different kind of joy to overwhelm him. _This_ was what had been missing last time. No mad rush to pull on clothing; no worrisome concerns over who had heard them. Just his wife pressed against his chest; her heart beating in tandem with his. Jaime kissed the crown of Brienne’s head and smiled against her temple.

“Can we end every day like this?”

Her laughter reverberated through his chest; her fingers carding through the soft hair that covered it. “_Yes, _Jaime. For as long as we want to, we can end every day like this."

“_Good._”

He brushed some damp strands from her forehead and stared down at his wife. Brienne pressed a kiss to his chest, before looking up at him with those eyes of hers; the eyes that he would get to stare in for the rest of his life. “I thought it would hurt.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Jaime reiterated, fingertips brushing the shell of his wife’s ear as he played with her hair. “So, like I said, I talked to someone. Just briefly.”

“Who?”

Jaime huffed out a breath, and tried to think of a way to word this without alarming his new wife. “I told you about Tyrion and Addam’s _celebration, _right?” She nodded. Brienne had been most amused that he had turned away the prospect of wine and women in favour of sparring with his betrothed the night before their wedding. “_Well, _one of them – the only one who did _not _offer to suck my cock, by the way – had a few suggestions.”

“You asked a _whore _how to please your Queen?”

“How not to _hurt _my wife. And who better than a professional? You wouldn’t ask a crofter how to forge a sword.” Jaime continued to stroke her hair. “Are you upset?”

She shook her head; her smile pressed against his skin. “Amused. And…_touched _that you would ask someone for advice. Truly, I cannot think of anyone else you could have asked.” There was no one. He did not think Brienne would take too kindly to him asking his friends; he _certainly _would not have turned to his father, or Brienne’s. Olenna might have been an option, but Jaime would rather have amputated his own cock than talk to the old bat about sex. The nice woman with the bare cunt had been _very _helpful, and she’d earned two gold dragons for it. “Did she have any advice about what to do _after_?”

“Tepid water, clean cloth, then allow your husband to hold you in his arms until he is ready to take you again.”

“Good advice.”

Brienne pulled herself away and left their bed with nothing more than a kiss. In the future, Jaime had every intention of using his tongue on his wife _after_; the thought of her face as he lapped his spend and her wetness from her cunt making his cock twitch. _Later. _Whilst Brienne ducked behind a screen to clean herself, Jaime followed his own instructions. He then stood by the table, as nude as his nameday, and poured themselves both a goblet of wine.

His wife joined him after a few moments: red marks across her breasts where his stubble had rubbed against her; teeth marks that would turn into a bruise marring her throat. His gaze swept across Brienne’s bare form: her small breasts; her taut stomach; muscular thighs Jaime longed to have wrapped around his hips as he thrust inside her. His cock twitched again.

“Already?”

“I’m a young man,” Jaime said, sliding an arm around his wife’s waist; his other hand moving down to squeeze her arse. Her hips bucked at the contact. “And I have a young, _nubile _wife who makes me think _filthy _things about all I wish to do to her.”

Brienne stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. She bent her head and captured his lips in a passionate kiss; her tongue sliding along his own. Jaime bit back a groan as his cock stiffened against her belly. Such was the glorious thing about almost being the same height: when they kissed like this, they could practically be in bed. They could _fuck_ like this: Brienne’s legs spread a little wider; his hands on her hips as he thrust inside her. _Gods, _he’d be overwhelmed by that image every time they stood side-by-side, now. Jaime began grinding his cock against her cunt. Brienne raised her leg high around his hip.

“Gods, _Jaime, _I want you again.”

“_Now. _Have me _now._”

Brienne pulled him forward. With a broad sweep of her arm, she knocked the carafe of wine and the goblets to the floor; then sat atop the table and wrapped one long leg around his hip. Jaime rubbed himself against Brienne; slow strokes of his cock against her cunt to tease her, get her wet enough to take him. It did not take much: the heel of Brienne’s foot dug into his skin as his wife _demanded _that he fuck her already. Jaime acquiesced, and sheathed himself fully inside her. He met her gaze as he moved; Brienne’s hips lifting with every thrust.

“Oh, oh!” Brienne moved between their bodies and began rubbing her clit with two fingers. “Jaime, I need—”

“—I know, love, _I know._ _Oh!”_

This had not been the soft intimacy of their first joining. This was desperation; passion: a need to be as close to each other as physically possible. The expectation of her maidenhead forgotten; they could now just enjoy the pleasure of each other’s bodies. Jaime shouted her name as he came for the second time that night. Brienne soon followed; her fingers grasping the table edge to steady herself.

When they were righted – when they had cleaned themselves off yet again – Brienne slipped on one of the matching robes that had been a gift from House Estermont. Feeling the warmth of her cheeks with the back of her hand, his wife stared sheepishly at the door to their chambers. “I rather feel for Ser Jason and Ser Petyr tonight.”

“Don’t,” he said, slipping on his own robe, let leaving it untied as he wrapped his arms around his wife. “There are worse things to hear as a royal guard than the Queen moaning in ecstasy. They’ll grow used to it.”

“How will I look them in the eye?”

“You’re the Queen.” Jaime kissed her neck; laving his tongue over the bruise his teeth had made during their first time. “You’re not supposed to look people in the eye.”

Brienne sighed, relaxing into his arms and letting him hold the weight of her. “I suppose you’re right. It still feels so strange, having guards outside the door. Listening to me – listening to _us. _One moment, I feel like I’m _finally _getting used to it; at other times, I feel like I have yet to adapt.”

“There’s been a lot to adapt to. Today alone we’ve been married, gifted _Valyrian steel, _and laid together for the first time. It’s…” Jaime sucked in a breath; his arousal abating as a rush of emotion ran through him. “Today is a day we’ll remember for the rest of our lives. We should take a moment.”

Brienne’s brow furrowed at his tone, and she turned back to look at him. “Are you all right?”

_No. A year ago I thought I would burn at any second, and now I’ve made love to my wife for the second time tonight and I have a _future. “It’s been a long day; I’m just tired. Forgive me, wife, but I think I’ll have to rest before I take you for a third time.”

“Of course.” Brienne touched his face; her soft hand cradling his cheek. Jaime leant into her touch. “We can rest for a while. We have the rest of our lives to enjoy all this.”

So they did.

\--

They held each other for a time: Jaime’s head resting upon Brienne’s shoulder; his arm thrown across her waist as she stroked his hair. Sleep claimed them soon after. It had been the most wondrous, yet exhausting, day and Brienne was truly surprised it had not happened earlier. When she awoke, she felt the familiar twinges of a bout: a mark on her shoulder; a stiffness in her thighs. There was a new ache between her legs, however. An ache that only grew as she turned to find her husband watching her.

“Is it morning?”

“Not quite.” Jaime placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I think this still counts as our wedding night.”

Brienne kissed Jaime, this time; her hand cupping his jaw. Her tongue ran along the seam of his mouth until he opened to her. Her hands were bold: sweeping across the line of his shoulders, slipping off the robe he wore so she could caress the hard muscle of his torso; squeeze the firmness of his behind. His own hand was not idle, either: skilled fingers circled her nipple as it puckered in the cool air; his palm pushing aside her left leg so he could stroke her cunt. They did not stop kissing as Jaime climbed on top of Brienne and entered her.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Jaime whispered; his green eyes heavy with lust as he thrust inside her.

Brienne did as she was bidden; her husband now able to push deeper. “_That feels_…I–I don’t have the words.”

“Then don’t speak. Just kiss me.”

And she did. Kissed him until Jaime came; until a warmth spread through Brienne like a summer’s day. Her husband slid out of her, left their bed to retrieve a cloth, and cleaned Brienne with reverence. Jaime then lay beside her, leaving kiss after kiss to her shoulder until they both fell asleep once again.

When Brienne woke a second time, thin daylight streamed through the drapes. Beside her, her husband snored softly; Jaime’s face mashed against the pillow. She thought of waking him. Of running her hands along the expanse of muscle; of riding him in their bed until they both came screaming. But the twinges in Brienne’s legs suggested a walk rather than a ride. With great reluctance, she left their bed. Relieved herself, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, and wrote a note to her beloved for when he awoke.

_Have gone to stretch my legs so you can sweep me off them again. Yours, B_

With a quiet step, Brienne crossed their chambers and opened the door. She had expected an awkward meeting with Ser Petyr and Ser Jason, but instead found Ser Brynden standing watch. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Ser Brynden. I feel the need to stretch my legs.”

“Of course.” He glanced backwards at her sleeping husband. A snore cut through the quiet, and they shared a smile. “I was happy to see you wed yesterday. If only so I didn’t have to keep chasing him out of your room.”

If anyone else had made such a comment, Brienne would have flushed scarlet and reprimanded them. But she was well aware of how many hells she and Jaime had put Ser Brynden through these last few moons. But that was all in the past; yesterday marked a new beginning for them all. “There will be no more need of that, now. The wedding _was_ beautiful, wasn’t it?” He nodded, smiling as they practically walked in-step. “I had hoped to speak more with your nieces, but I was unable. Tell me, Ser Brynden, how long do your family plan to stay in the capital?”

As she and Ser Brynden walked through the near-empty corridors, he told her of Lysa and Catelyn; of holding his great-nephew for the first time. She listened with rapt attention as he talked of the reunions during her wedding; of soldiers and friends who had fled to all four corners after the fighting had stopped. Brienne hoped she could spend some time with her old comrades before they returned to their lives unmarred by war and blood. Like Ned. As she and Ser Brynden stepped out into the gardens, Brienne was not surprised to find her old friend in the Godswood. He had prayed often during their campaign: prayed for Lyanna, prayed for victory, prayed for peace. His Gods had heard the last two prayers, if not the first.

“Brynden, would you mind if I spoke to Ned alone?”

The use of his first name startled her Lord Commander. That was, perhaps, the only reason why he agreed. “I’ll be waiting back at your chambers.”

“Thank you.”

Ned arose from the Godswood just as Brynden made his leave. He nodded at Brienne, and together they walked side-by-side in peaceful silence. There was not much to say that had not already been said. They had fought together, bled together. He had supported her ascension to the throne; had supported her decision to appoint Jaime, even if he had not yet understood _why_. In future, perhaps their children would even marry. A union between the North and South. But for now, they were just two old friends walking the gardens of a place that had, for the longest time, been the end of all things.

“I want to thank you,” Brienne said as they walked, no direction in mind. “For suggesting I become Queen. I struggle to think of what my life would have been had you not.”

“Brynden would have knighted you, or I would.” Ned smiled. “You deserved it, more than a lot of the men I’ve met. As for the rest of it…I’m not sure. You would have been welcome in Winterfell; I know that much.”

Brienne smiled wistfully. Tried to imagine spending the rest of her life up North; watching Ned and Catelyn raise their family. She would have been the aunt to their children that Lyanna never could be; teach the girls how to fight and the boys how to stitch a wound. It would have been a _good _life. But her duties would have _always_ laid elsewhere. Jaime had been right, that first day. No matter what, she had a responsibility as the only child of a noble house. To wed; to produce heirs.

And now she would, but on her terms.

They walked for a while: Ned telling her stories from the North; how much Robb and Jon had grown since his last visit to King’s Landing. As they left the gardens, he paused and took her hand within his. “When you first arrived at Winterfell, I thought you’d be begging to return home within a turn of the moon. The North is not for everyone, but you adapted. Like you’ve adapted to that crown. I could not have put my faith in a better soul.” He paused. “The war took much from me. My father, my sister. A brother of my blood, and a brother of my choosing. But it gave, too. My wife. My son. My nephew. And a sister of my choosing. You are _always _welcome at Winterfell, Brienne. And you will _always _be one of us.”

Tears pricked at the corner of her eye. “Thank you, Ned.”

The two old friends embraced before Ned pulled away; smiling. “Now, if my Queen will excuse me, I wish to breakfast with my family.”

“You’re excused.” They laughed. “I should return to mine.” Jaime would be waking soon, and they could share their first breakfast as a married couple. But she still felt the urge to walk. Looking at Ned’s departing figure, Brienne knew where she needed to go.

She walked, and walked some more until she found herself outside the doors to the throne room. Brienne could not have imagined, on that fateful day, where she would be almost a year later. So much had changed. _She _had changed. Pushing open the doors, Brienne almost expected to see the bodies of her predecessor and his pyromancer lying upon the floor. There was a single figure, though, by the throne. Sitting on the steps; lost in thought.

“Jaime.”

His head rose; his smile evident even from across the room. Smiling herself, Brienne crossed to her husband and joined him upon the stone steps. Jaime laced their hands as she sat by his side. “My wife was not in our bed when I awoke. So, I walked, and I found myself here.”

“As did I. You know, in a few weeks, it will be a _year_. I cannot believe how quickly the time has gone.”

Jaime smiled wistfully, his free hand patting the stone beside him. “We sat here, and I told you _everything. _I thought you wouldn’t believe me. But you thanked me, you _held _me.” He lifted their clasped hands to his lips. “I think I fell in love with you that day, Brienne. Maybe it was the first stone in the wall. _Yes, _that’s it. And every touch, every smile, every word of support added another stone until my love for you was unmovable; unshakeable.”

Brienne reached over with her free hand and stroked her beloved’s face. “After I held you, after we both cried, I remember thinking that I wanted to get us both home. Away from this place. But then I became Queen and I had to stay. And you _stayed. _And every morning embrace, every walk through the gardens, every sparring session made this place feel like home. Of course, it’s not the Red Keep. It’s _you, _Jaime. _You_ are my home.”

His hand fell from hers as Jaime reached up to cradle her face; his brow coming to rest upon hers. “_I am_. I am your Prince. Your Hand. Your Husband.”

“I am your Queen. Your _Knight._” Jaime grinned. “Your wife. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“In this life and any other.”

Brienne kissed Jaime in the spot where they had first met, where they had first embraced. Where they would stand as Queen and Prince Consort to preside over the kingdoms. Where they would present their first child to the Court. Where Jaime would tell their three children for the umpteenth time how he thought their mother the Maiden when she entered this very room. Brienne kissed Jaime in that spot until they both decided to return to their bedchambers and satisfy their hunger. They left the ghosts behind them as they went and began their new life together.

The Lion and the Beauty. Oathkeeper and Stormbreaker. The Golden Prince and the Warrior Queen.


End file.
